NRLF 


B   i|   71M   DED 


GIFT   OF 

ktsfoain    lur.     ,1-wseler 


TALES   IN  PROSE 


FOR    THE  YOUNG. 


BY 


MARY    HOWITT. 


BOSTON: 

WEEKS,  JORDAN  &  COMPANY. 
1839. 


TUTTLE,   DENNETT    AND    CHISHOLM, 

Printers— 17  Sckool  Street. 


Hi 

PREFACE. 


MAW 

VERY  little  need  be  said  by  way  of  Preface 
to  this  volume  of  "  Tales  in  Prose/'  except 
what  is  in  grateful  courtesy  due  to  my  friendly 
critics,  who  have  so  cordially  and  handsomely 
received  its  predecessor,  "  The  Tales  in  Verse  ;  " 
and  through  whom  it  has  at  once  obtained  so 
extensive  a  circulation.  To  my  reviewers, 
therefore,  I  am  extremely  obliged  ;  and,  while 
I  tender  my  thanks,  I  will  take  this  oppor- 
tunity of  explaining  an  omission  in  my  last 
Preface,  of  which  some  of  them  have  reminded 
me.  I  had  no  desire  to  conceal  the  fact  of 
several  of  the  pieces  contained  in  these  volumes 
having  been  published  before  ;  and  it  was 
my  intention  to  have  stated  the  circumstance. 

'417176 


6    •;.;••;.••'::    PREFACE. 

It  will,  however,  be  enough  to  say,  that 
that  Preface  was  written  in  great  haste,  on  the 
very  last  day  of  my  residence  at  Nottingham, 
and  in  the  hurry  of  the  time  was  omitted.  I 
myself  was  very  sorry  for  the  omission  when 
I  first  saw  the  Preface  in  its  printed  form. 

West-end  Cottage. 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

NIGHT    SCENE    IN   A   POOR   MAN?S   HOUSE *.....  9 

MRS.   BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD 19 

CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES 35 

MATTHEW  NOGGINS' s  LETTER  TO  HIS  COUSIN  ....  53 

THE    THREE    WISHES 58 

BARZILLAI   BUNKER   AND    THE    THIEF 69 

THE   GRANDMOTHER •  74 

THE    TWO     FRIENDS 78 

FIRE-SIDE   PHILOSOPHY 86 

THE    TWO    BOYS    OF     FLORENCE 89 

CONSTANTINE   AND    GIOVANNI 108 

MARTHA   AND   MARY 129 

A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR, 144 

THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN 155 

THE    TALE     OF   A   TRIANGLE 163 


A  NIGHT-SCENE  IN  A  POOR  MAN'S  HOUSE. 


IT  was  in  the  middle  of  winter,  on  the  night  of 
the  twenty-third  of  January,  when  the  weather  was 
miserably  cold ;  it  neither  decidedly  froze,  nor  yet 
did  it  thaw ;  but  between  the  two  it  was  cold  and 
damp,  and  penetrated  to  the  very  bone,  even  of 
those  who  sat  in  carpeted  rooms  before  large  fires, 
and  were  warmly  clad.  It  was  on  this  evening 
that  the  seven  little  children  of  David  Baird,  the 
weaver,  stood  huddled  together  in  their  small  room, 
beside  a  small  fire,  which  was  burning  comfort- 
lessly. The  baby  lay  in  a  wooden  cradle  on  one 
corner  of  the  hearth.  The  fire,  to  be  sure,  gave 
some  warmth,  because  it  had  boiled  an  iron  pot 
full  of  potatoes,  but  it  gave  very  little  cheeriness  to 
the  room.  The  mother  had  portioned  out  the 
evening  meal, —  a  few  potatoes  to  each,  —  and  she 
now  sate  down  by  the  round  table,  lighted  the 
farthing  candle,  and  was  preparing  to  do  some 
little  piece  of  housewifery. 

"  May  I  stir  the  fire?  "  asked  David,  the  eldest 
boy. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  mother ;  "it  burns  away 
too  fast  if  it  is  stirred." 


10  A    NIGHT-SCENE 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  good  fire !  "  sighed  Judith,  the 
second  girl. 

"  Bless  me ! "  said  the  mother,  "  it  is  a  good 
fire !  Why,  there's  Dame  Grundy  and  her  grand- 
child gone  to  bed  because  they  have  no  fire  at 
all!" 

"  I  should  like  some  more  salt  to  my  potatoes," 
said  little  Bessy;  "  may  I  have  some,  mother?" 

"  There  is  none,  child,"  she  replied ;  "  I  put  the 
last  in  the  pot." 

"  O  dear  !  "  cried  out  little  Joey,  "  my  feet  are 
so  bad  !  They  get  no  better,  mother,  though  I  did 
beat  them  with  holly." 

"  Poor  thing  !  "  sighed  the  mother,  "  I  wish  you 
had  better  shoes/' 

"  There's  a  pair,"  said  Joey,  briskly,  "  at  Timmy 
Nixon's,  for  fourteen  pence." 

"  Fourteen  pence  ! "  repeated  the  mother;  "it 
would  take  a  long  time  to  get  fourteen  pence." 

"  Mat.  Willis  begged  a  pair  of  nice  warm  boots," 
replied  Joey,  experimentally. 

"  We  will  not  beg,"  said  the  mother,  "  if  we  can 
help  it  —  but  let  me  see  the  shoes;  "  and  Joey  put 
up  one  of  his  miserably  frost-bitten  feet  on  his 
mother's  knee.  "  Bless  thee !  my  poor  lad,"  said 
the  mother  ;  "  thou  shalt  not  go  to  work  again  till 
it  is  warmer." 

"  Mother,"  interrupted  little  Susan,  "  may  I  have 
some  more  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  more,"  said  she,  "  but  I  have  a 
whole  loaf  yet." 


IN   A   POOR   MAN'S    HOUSE.  11 

"  O  dear,  O  dear,  how  nice  ! "  cjied  the 
children,  clapping  their  hands ;  "  and  give  Joey  the 
bottom  crust,"  said  one,  "  because  of  his  poor 
feet ! " 

"  And  give  me  a  big  bit,"  cried  Susan,  holding 
out  a  fat  little  hand. 

The  mother  divided  the  loaf,  setting  aside  a 
piece  for  her  husband ;  and  presently  the  husband 
came. 

"  It  rains,  and  is  very  cold,"  said  he,  shiver- 
ing. 

"Please  God,"  rejoined  the  mother,  "it will  be 
warmer  after  the  rain." 

David  Baird  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  an  uneasy 
look  —  not  that  he  had  any  fresh  cause  of  uneasi- 
ness —  his  wages  had  not  been  lowered ;  his  hours 
of  work  had  not  been  increased ;  nor  had  he 
quarrelled  with  his  master  :  but  the  life  of  a  poor 
man  is  an  uneasy  life  —  a  life  of  care,  weariness, 
and  never-ending  anxieties.  What  wonder  then  if 
his  face  have  a  joyless  look  ? 

The  children  made  room  for  their  father  by  the 
fire  ;  Susan  and  Neddy  placed  themselves  between 
his  knees,  and  his  wife  handed  him  the  portion  of 
supper  which  had  been  set  aside  for  him. 

Mary,  the  eldest  girl,  was  sitting  on  a  box,  feed- 
ing a  squirrel  with  the  bread  which  her  mother  had 
given  her  —  she  was  very  happy,  and  kisscd  the 
squirrel  many  times  ;  Judith  was  sitting  beside  her, 
and  David  held  the  cup  out  of  which  the  squirrel 
drank. 


12  A    NIGHT-SCENE 

"  Nobody  has  inquired  after  that  squirrel,"  said 
the  father,  looking  at  them. 

"  No/3  replied  Mary,  "  and  I  hope  nobody 
will." 

"  They  will  not  now,"  said  the  younger  David, 
"  for  it  is  three  months  since  we  found  it." 

"  We  might  sell  it  for  half-a-crown,"  said  the 
father.  Mary  looked  frightened,  and  held  the 
squirrel  to  her  bosom. 

"  Joey's  feet  are  very  bad,"  remarked  the  mother. 

"  And  that  doctor's  bill  has  never  been  paid," 
said  the  father  — "  seventeen  shillings  and  six- 
pence." 

"  'Tis  more  money  than  we  get  in  a  week," 
sighed  the  mother. 

"  I  go  round  by  the  back  lane,  to  avoid  passing 
the  door,"  said  the  father ;  "  and  he  has  asked  me 
for  it  three  times." 

"  We  will  get  it  paid  in  the  summer,"  rejoined 
the  mother,  hopefully ;  "  but  now  coals  are  raised, 
and  bread,  they  say,  will  rise  before  the  week  is 
out." 

"  Lord  help  us ! "  exclaimed  the  father,  inter- 
nally. 

"  Mary,  fetch  the  other  candle,"  cried  the  mother, 
as  the  farthing  candle  burnt  low  in  the  stick,  and 
then  went  out. 

"  There  is  not  one,"  replied  Mary ;  "  we  burnt 
out  the  other  last  night." 

"  Have  you  a  farthing,  David  ?  "  asked  the  wife. 

"  Not  one,"  replied  he,  rather  hastily. 


IN  A  POOR  MAN'S  HOUSE.  13 

"  Nor  have  we  one  in  the  house,"  said  the  wife; 
"  I  paid  all  we  had  for  the  bread." 

"  Stir  up  the  fire  then,"  said  David. 

"  Nay,"  rejoined  the  wife ;  "  coals  are  raised." 

"  Lord  help  us  !  "  again  sighed  David,  and  two 
of  the  children  began  coughing.  "  Those  chil- 
dren's coughs  are  no  better  !  "  remarked  the  father, 
somewhat  impatiently.  And  then  the  baby  awoke 

—  and  so  did  Bessy,  who  had  fallen  asleep  on  the 
floor  unobserved,  crying,  "  I  am  so  cold,  mother !    1 
am  so  cold  !  " 

"  Go  to  bed  with  her,  Mary,"  said  the  mother, 
"  for  you  were  up  betimes,  this  morning,  washing 

—  put   your   clothes  on  the  bed,   and   keep   her 
warm." 

Mary  went  into  the  little  dark  chamber  to  bed 
with  her  sister,  and  her  mother  tried  to  hush  the 
crying  infant. 

David  was  distracted.  He  was  cold,  hungry, 
weary,  and  in  gloom.  Eight  children,  whom  he 
loved,  were  about  him,  but  he  thought  of  them  only 
as  born  to  poverty,  uneasiness,  and  care,  like  him- 
self—  he  felt  unhappy,  and  grew  almost  angry  as 
the  baby  continued  to  cry. 

Cheer  up,  David,  honest  man!  —  there  is  that 
coming  even  now  —  coming  within  three  streets' 
length  of  thee  —  which  shall  raise  thee  above  want 
forever  !  Cheer  up  !  —  this  is  the  last  hour  any  of 
you  shall  want  for  fire  —  the  last  hour  you  shall 
want  for  candle-light.  Thou  shalt  keep  thy  squirrel, 
Mary  !  Bessy,  thou  shalt  have  blankets  to  warm 
2 


14  A    NIGHT-SCENE 

thee !  The  doctor's  bill  shall  be  paid  —  nor,  David 
Baird,  shalt  thou  ever  again  skulk  by  back-ways  to 
thy  work  to  avoid  an  importunate  creditor  !  Joey, 
thou  shalt  turn  the  wheel  no  longer —  thy  feet 
shall  get  well  in  woollen  stockings,  and  warm  shoes 
at  five  shillings  the  pair  !  You  shall  no  more  want 
salt  to  your  potatoes,  nor  shall  Susan  again  go  short 
of  her  supper  !  But  of  all  this,  as  yet,  you  know 
nothing,  good  people  ;  and  there  you  sit,  hopeless 
and  comfortless,  and  know  nothing  about  the  relief 
—  and  such  splendid  relief,  too,  that  even  now  is 
approaching  your  door  !  Wail,  little  baby,  an'  thou 
wilt  —  nurse  thy  poor  tingling  feet,  Joey,  by  the 
fire ;  and  muse  in  sadness  on  thy  poverty,  David 
Baird,  yet  a  few  moments  longer  :  it  can  do  you 
no  harm,  for  the  good  news  is  even  now  turning 
the  corner  of  your  street ! 

Knock,  knock,  knock  !  David  started  from  his 
reverie. 

"  Some  one  is  at  the  door !  "  said  the  wife ;  and 
up  jumped  little  David.  "  If  it  is  neighbor  Wood 
come  to  borrow  some  meal,  you  can  get  her  a  cup- 
full,"  added  the  mother,  as  the  knock  was  repeated 
more  hastily. 

Up  rose  David  Baird,  and  thinking  of  the  apoth- 
ecary's bill,  opened  the  door  reluctantly. 

"  Are  you  David  Baird  ?  "  asked  the  letter-car- 
rier, who  had  knocked. 

"  I  am,"  said  David. 

"  This,  then,  is  for  you ;  and  there  are  twent- 


IN  A  POOR  MAN'S  HOUSE.  15 

two   pence  to   pay  on  it,"  said   the  man,  holding 
forth  a  large  letter. 

"  Is  it  a  summons  ?  "  cried  the  wife  in  dismay  ; 
"  for  what  is  David  Baird  summoned  ? "  and  she 
rushed  to  the  door  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  It  is  no  summons,"  replied  the  man,  "  but  a 
money-letter,  I  take  it." 

"  It  is  not  for  me,"  said  David,  half  glad  to  es- 
cape his  liability  to  pay  the  two-and-twenty  pence. 

"  But  are  you  not  David  Baird,  the  weaver?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  David. 

"  Then,"  continued  the  letter-carrier,  "  pay  me 
the  twenty-two  pence,  and  if  it  is  not  right,  they 
will  return  you  the  money  at  the  post-office." 

"  Twenty-two  pence  !  "  repeated  David,  ashamed 
to  confess  his  poverty. 

"  One  shilling  and  ten-pence !  "  said  the  wife ; 
"  we  have  not  so  much  money  by  us,  good  man." 

"  Light  a  candle,"  said  the  letter-carrier,  bustling 
into  the  house,  "  and  hunt  up  what  you  have." 

David  was  pushed  to  an  extremity.  "  We  have 
none,"  said  he;  "we  have  not  money  to  buy  a 
candle ! " 

"  Lord  bless  me ! "  said  the  letter-carrier,  and 
gave  David  the  younger  four-pence  to  fetch  half  a 
pound  of  candles.  David  and  his  wife  knew  not 
what  to  think ;  and  the  letter-man  shook  the  wet 
from  his  hat.  In  a  few  moments  the  candles 
came,  and  the  letter  was  put  into  David's  hands. 

"  Open  it,  can't  you?  "  said  the  letter-man. 

"  Is  it  for  me  ?  "  inquired  David  again. 


16  A    NIGHT-SCENE 

"  It  is,"  replied  the  other  impatiently,  —  "  what 
a  fuss  is  here  about  opening  a  letter ! " 

"  What  is  this !  "  exclaimed  David,  taking  out  a 
bill  for  one  hundred  pounds. 

"O!"  sighed  the  wife,  "if,  after  all,  it  should 
not  be  for  us !  But  read  the  letter,  David  ;  "  and 
David  read  it. 

"  Sir, 

"  You,  David  Baird,  weaver,  of ,  and  son 

of  the  late  David  Baird,  of  Marden-on-Wear,  lineal 
decendant  of  Sir  David  Baird,  of  Monkshaughton 
Gastle,  county  of  York,  and  sole  heir  of  Sir  Peter 
Baird,  of  Monkshaughton  aforesaid,  lately  deceased, 
are  requested  to  meet  Mr.  Dennis,  solicitor,  at 
York,  as  soon  after  the  receipt  of  this  as  possible. 
It  will  be  necessary  for  you  to  bring  your  family 
with  you ;  and  to  cover  travelling  and  other  ex- 
penses, you  will  receive  enclosed  a  bill  for  one 
hundred  pounds,  payable  at  sight. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be, 

"  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

"  J.  SMITH,  for  Mr.  DENNIS." 

"  Sure  enough,"  said  David,  "  David  Baird,  of 
Marden-on-Wear,  was  my  father." 

"  O,  O,  O ! "  chuckled  out  little  David,  as  he 
hopped  about  behind  the  group,  "  a  hundred 
pounds  and  a  castle!" 

"  Heaven  be  praised ! "  ejaculated  the  wife, 
while  she  hugged  the  baby  in  her  arms 


IN  A  POOR  MAN'S  HOUSE.  17 

l<  And,"  continued  David,  "  the  great  Sir  David 
Baird  was  our  ancestor,  but  we  never  looked  for 
any  thing  from  that  quarter." 

"  Then  the  letter  is  for  you  ?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  It  is.  Please  Heaven  to  make  us  thankful.for 
it,"  said  David  seriously ;  "  but,"  hesitated  he, 
"  you  want  the  money." 

"No,"  said  the  letter-carrier,  going  out,  "I'll 
call  for  that  to-morrow." 

"  Bolt  the  door,  wife,"  said  David,  as  she  shut 
the  door  after  the  man ;  "  this  money  requires  safe 
keeping." 

"  Mend  the  fire  ! "  said  the  mother ;  and  her 
son  David  put  on  a  shovel-full  of  coal,  and  stirred 
out  the  ashes. 

"  Kiss  me,  my  children  !  "  exclaimed  the  father 
with  emotion ;  "  kiss  me,  and  bless  God,  for  we 
shall  never  want  bread  again  !  "  . 

"  Is  the  house  on  fire  ?  "  screamed  Mary,  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  "  for  there  is  such  a  blaze  !  " 

"  We  are  burning  a  mould  candle! "  said  Judith, 
"  and  have  such  a  big  fire  !  " 

"  Come  here,  Mary,"  said  the  father ;  and  Mary 
slid  down  stairs,  wrapped  in  an  old  cloak. 

"  Father's  a  rich  man  !  we're  all  rich,  —  and 
shall  live  in  a  grand  castle !  "  laughed  out  young 
David. 

"  We  shall  have  coats,  and  blankets,  and  stock- 
ings, and  shoes !  "  cried  Joey,  all  alert,  yet  still 
remembering  his  poor  frost-bitten  feet. 


18  A    NIGHT-SCENE. 

"We  shall  have  roast  beef,  and  plum-pud- 
ding !  "  said  Susan. 

"  We  shall  have  rice-pudding  every  day  !  "  cried 
Neddy. 

"  And  let  me  have  a  horse,  father,"  said  young 
David. 

David  Baird  was  again  distracted ;  but  how 
different  were  his  feelings !  He  could  have  done 
a  thousand  extravagant  things  —  he  could  have 
laughed,  cried,  sung,  leaped  about,  nay,  rolled  on 
the  floor  for  joy ;  but  he  did  none  of  these  —  he 
sate  calm,  arid  looked  almost  grave.  At  length, 
he  said,  "  Wife,  send  the  children  to  bed,  and  let 
us  talk  over  this  good  fortune  together." 

"  You  shall  all  have  your  Sunday  clothes  on 
to-morrow,"  said  the  happy  mother,  as  she  sent 
them  up  stairs.  To  bed  they  went ;  and  after 
awhile  laughed  and  talked  themselves  to  sleep. 
The  father  and  mother  smiled  and  wept  by  turns, 
but  did  not  sleep  that  night. 


MRS.  BRIDGET  AND  HER  WARD. 


MY  mother  died  when  I  was  so  young  as  to 
have  no  recollection  of  her.  My  father  was 
captain  of  an  East  Indiaman,  and  was  commonly 
out  of  England  for  upwards  of  two  years  together. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  wanting  in  affection  to- 
wards me,  though  he  saw  me  so  rarely  that  I  used 
to  lose  all  remembrance  of  his  person  in  the  in- 
tervals of  our  meeting,  and  had,  as  it  were,  to 
commence  a  new  acquaintance  with  him  every 
time  he  returned,  which  was  not  a  difficult  thing 
to  do,  for  he  was  naturally  fond  of  children,  and 
was  fond  of  me  to  an  extreme.  As  it  happened 
that  there  were  no  nearly-connected  branches  of 
our  family  to  whose  care  I  could  be  intrusted,  my 
father  placed  me  with  an  old  woman  who  had 
attended  my  mother  most  faithfully  during  the 
long  illness  which  ended  in  her  death,  and  to 
whose  charge  she  had  especially  committed  me ; 
and,  indeed,  a  kinder,  better  nurse  never  lived 
than  poor  Mrs.  Bridget. 

My  father  saw  me  gradually  improving  under 
her  care,  from  the  little  sickly  baby  my  mother 
left,  to  the  strong  rosy  child  which  he  afterwards 


20  MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER   WARD. 

found  me.  As  we  lived  in  a  secluded  village, 
remote  from  any  considerable  town,  but  where  my 
mother's  property  lay,  I  had  not  the  advantage  of 
attending  any  good  school.  Still,  as  the  hamlet 
consisted  of  small  farmers  and  their  laborers,  I 
was  looked  upon  as  no  way  inferior,  in  learning  or 
accomplishments,  to  any  of  them,  though  I  was  so 
utterly  ignorant  that  now  I  am  frightened  to  think 
of  it ;  for  of  what  was  beyond  the  affairs  and  objects 
of  our  narrow,  every-day  life,  I  knew  nothing  — 
nay,  even  of  these  I  knew,  as  it  were,  only  the 
externals.  I  never  reflected ;  I  was  only  a  mere 
animal,  using  its  five  senses,  but  no  more ;  for  of 
an  intellectual  or  spiritual  existence  I  knew  as 
little  as  the  fowls  of  the  air.  We  were  all  as 
people  having  eyes,  but  seeing  not ;  ears,  but 
hearing  not;  and  hearts,  yet  without  comprehen- 
sion. I  was,  in  most  respects,  like  Peter  Bell 
and  the  primrose,  which 

A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

To  me,  however,,  a  flower  had  charms  beyond 
the  mere  outside,  and  stirred  sentiments  within 
me,  which  came  and  went,  yet  were  not  regarded. 
Generally  speaking,  all  that  surrounded  me  were 
but  things  with  names  ;  I  learned  their  names,  and 
then  my  knowledge  ceased ;  but  afterwards,  when 
my  mind  was  awakened,  I  was  amazed  at  the 
ramifications,  as  it  were,  of  knowledge  which 
spread-vftorn  the  commonest  things  that  surrounded 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD.  21 

me ;  and  then  it  was  that  I  found,  to  my  infinite 
amazement,  that  glass,  for  instance,  was  not  the 
mere  letters  which  spelt  the  word  glass,  nor  salt 
mere  salt,  but  involved,  in  a  thousand  ways, 
subjects  of  the  most  delightful  interest.  I  was 
never  tired  of  finding  knowledge  in  common 
things  when  I  once  knew  how.  But  how  much 
more  did  all  this  apply  to  my  spiritual  nature  as 
connected  with  religious  knowledge  !  I  had  been 
told  that  there  was  a  God  —  that  I  must  repeat  a 
form  of  words,  called  prayers,  morning  and  night, 
or  that  he  would  be  angry ;  that  I  must  speak  the 
truth,  or  he  would  be  angry  also ;  in  short,  that 
I  must  perform  all  my  moral  and  religious  duties 
to  avert  his  anger.  I  therefore  had  towards  the 
Divine  Being  no  sentiment  but  that  of  undefined 
fear.  Here  ended  all  my  religious  knowledge  — 
all  was  vague,  dark,  and  unpleasing.  Of  love, 
gratitude,  and  the  filial  reverence  which  the  human 
family  owe  to  their  heavenly  Parent,  I  knew 
nothing.  This,  my  utter  ignorance,  my  father  saw 
and  deplored ;  nay,  even  tried  to  remedy  ;  but  his 
visits  were  either  too  short,  or  my  nature  too 
volatile,  for  any  permanent  impression  to  be  made 
by  his  instructions ;  and,  spite  of  his  earnest  en- 
treaties to  Mrs.  Bridget,  that  I  might  be  properly 
taught  in  these  matters,  I  made  no  progress  what- 
ever ;  and  how,  indeed,  could  I  ?  for  poor  Mrs. 
Bridget,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  was  quite 
inadequate  to  the  task.  She  was  very  ignorant, 
and,  having  weak  sight,  could  scarcely  spell  out 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD. 

a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  —  which,  by  ,  some  un- 
accountable chance,  seemed  always  to  open  at  a 
chapter  of  genealogy.  Poor  dear  soul !  what 
sorrowful  confusion  she  used  to  make  when  she 
tried  to  enlighten  me  in  things  she  so  dimly  com- 
prehended herself!  Again,  she  was  very  rheumatic, 
and  as  the  church  had  the  reputation  of  being 
damp,  and  service  was  performed  in  it  only  every 
other  Sunday,  owing  to  the  clergyman  living  at  a 
distance,  I  had  not  the  opportunity  of  attending 
divine  worship,  and  thereby  gaining  some  knowl- 
edge of  holy  things.  Mrs.  Bridget,  moreover,  was 
a  rigid  churchwoman,  and  could  not  by  any  means 
have  been  prevailed  upon  to  enter  any  of  the  dis- 
senters' chapels ;  so  that,  from  various  causes,  we 
seemed  excluded  from  public  worship  altogether. 
She,  however,  kind  soul  !  taught  me  all  she  knew, 
and  that  well.  I  could  knit  and  sew,  and  was  qual- 
ified in  every  respect  for  a  notable  housewife.  I 
watched  our  little  meals  cooking,  when  she  was 
otherwise  occupied.  I  neatly  mended  my  own 
clothes,  folded  them  up,  and  put  them  by  with 
scrupulous  care.  I  even  tried  to  wash,  mounted 
in  my  little  pair  of  pattens  to  the  wash-tub,  and 
was  praised  for  my  skill.  I  could  iron  without 
either  burning  the  clothes  or  my  fingers  ;  and  was 
believed,  by  my  simple-minded  guardian,  to  be  as 
well  trained  a  little  maiden  as  any  in  the  three  next 
counties. 

No  child   ever  loved   the  most   tender   mother 
better  than  I  did  my  humble  friend,  and  our  sep- 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER   WARD.  23 

aration  was  a  bitter  pang,  for  I  could  not  foresee 
the  happy  consequences  it  would  produce  to  us 
both  —  but  I  am  anticipating  events. 

At  eight  years  old  I  was  a  tall,  robust,  ruddy 
girl,  with  an  immense  quantity  of  curling  chestnut 
hair,  dangling  into  my  eyes  and  hanging  about  my 
shoulders.  I  knew  every  field  in  the  parish,  and 
every  creature,  tame  and  wild,  that  might  be  found 
in  them.  In  the  summer  I  went  into  the  hay-fields 
to  work  or  play,  as  I  liked  best,  and  to  ride  in  the 
empty  wagons,  or  tear  my  frock  or  my  hands  in 
gathering  sprays  of  wild  roses,  or  long,  trailing 
stems  of  the  beautiful  blue  vetch.  I  was  up  with 
the  earliest  dawn  to  pick  mushrooms  in  the  old 
pasture-fields;  I  went  a-gleaning;  I  gathered 
blackberries,  and  spent  whole  days  in  picking 
bilberries  on  a  wide  heath  some  miles  off,  with  the 
poor  children  of  the  village,  who  gained  their  living 
at  that  season  by  doing  so  ;  and  being  instructed 
by  Mrs.  Bridget  to  give  my  gatherings  to  my  humble 
associates,  I  was,  wherever  I  went,  an  honored  and 
welcome  companion.  There  was  not  a  man,  wo- 
man, or  child  in  the  village,  that  I  did  not  famil- 
iarly know.  Many  a  baby  I  had  half  nursed,  and 
for  many  a  little  creature's  untimely  death  I  had 
sincerely  mourned.  These  are  small  things  to 
write  about,  and  I  tell  them,  not  to  make  my  young 
readers  think  too  well  of  me,  but  as  traits  of  my 
early  character,  training,  and  life;  and  if  1  add  that 
I  was  generally  beloved,  let  me  not  be  thought  vain, 
but  do,  my  dear  young  readers,  take  into  consid- 


24  MRS.    BRIDGET   AND   HER   WARD. 

eration  that,  among  the  poor  people  with  whom  I 
associated,  there  was  so  much  kindness,  so  much 
patient  endurance  of  poverty  and  pain,  and  such 
unostentatious  sympathizing  of  poor  neighbor  with 
neighbor,  that  no  one  could  have  been,  as  I  was, 
among  them  daily,  nay,  almost  hourly,  without 
having  the  heart  improved,  and  the  affections  and 
charities  of  our  nature  called  into  activity,  and 
thereby  winning  their  confidence  and  love.  Mrs. 
Bridget  was  a  most  kind-hearted,  benevolent  crea- 
ture ;  and  was  enabled,  by  the  allowance  which 
was  made  for  my  maintenance,  and  our  frugal  way 
of  living,  to  be  a  general  benefactor.  I  was  her 
almoner,  and  through  my  intimate  knowledge  of 
every  household,  I  became  acquainted  with  all 
their  wants  and  sorrows,  which  we  had  often  the 
means,  and  always  the  will,  to  relieve.  O!  when 
I  look  back  to  those  times,  and  see  their  happiness, 
their  simplicity,  and  their  humble  usefulness,  how 
do  I  mourn  over  the  one  fault  which  darkened  it 
all  —  our  ignorance  of  the  true  nature  of  the  Divine 
Father  —  even  while  our  practice  was  often  so 
truly  Christian  ! 

Although  I  was  a  considerable  heiress  in  this 
country  district,  I  knew  little,  and  thought  still  less, 
about  it.  There  was  no  parade  about  any  thing. 
The  honest  farmer,  who  acted  as  my  father's  bailiff, 
quietly  collected  his  yearly  rents,  transmitted  them 
to  his  agent  in  town,  paid  our  small,  though  amply 
sufficient  stipend,  and  there  was  an  end  of  the 
matter.  Our  cottage  stood  on  the  farm  of  this 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER   WARD.  25 

good  man.  It  was  a  sweet  little  spot,  embosomed 
in  trees,  with  a  large  garden,  and  a  small  orchard 
of  old  mossy  trees,  which,  nevertheless,  produced 
apples  so  red  and  so  golden,  that,  in  after  years, 
whenever  I  read  of  Hesperian  apples,  I  saw,  in 
fancy,  those  of  our  own  orchard.  Among  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  ana1  in  their  gnarled  trunks, 
the  robin,  the  chaffinch,  the  missel-thrush,  the 
throstle,  and  the  blackbird,  found  warm  and  safe 
retreat;  for  in  my  predatory  excursions  I  never 
harried  the  nest  of  any  bird  which,  as  it  were,  had 
put  itself  under  our  protection.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  orchard  ran  a  small  winding  brook,  with  broken 
banks,  mossy,  and  covered  with  every  graceful  and 
luxuriant  plant  that  loves  the  water-side.  The 
stream  was  shaded  by  alders,  with  here  and  there 
an  immense,  half-decaying  willow,  which  formed  in 
itself  a  picturesque  union  of  old  age  and  vigorous 
youth.  On  the  orchard  slope  grew  snowdrops  and 
wild  daffodils,  flowers  which  I  can  never  see  with^ 
out  the  freshness  and  happiness  of  my  early  years 
returning  with  the  memory  of  that  green,  quiet 
orchard.  Under  the  hedges,  among  the  brown, 
half-dissected  leaves  of  the  holly,  sprang  up  the 
first  violets  of  the  year — violets,  thickly  set  as  the 
stars  in  the  sky,  white  and  blue,  an  almost  inex- 
haustible succession,  though  my  little  basket  was 
filled  every  morning. 

Our  garden  was  as  old-fashioned  as  could  well 
be  conceived  :  we  had  no  flowers  but  of  the  most 
primitive  kind,  but  those  in  such  luxuriant  abun- 
3 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD. 

dance,  as  quite  to  make  up  for  their  inferior 
quality.  Never  did  I  see  such  clumps  of  crocuses 
as  ours,  nor  such  roots  of  polyanthuses ;  never  such 
yellow  and  lilac  primroses,  nor  elsewhere  such 
roots  of  that  old-fashioned  oxlip,  called  by  Mrs. 
Bridget  "  dick-in-green-doublets."  Poor  Mrs. 
Bridget  loved  her  garden  next  to  myself,  and  was 
very  particular  in  the  management  of  her  auricu- 
las, pinks,  and  carnations.  Her  horticulture  was 
reckoned  the  finest  in  the  country ;  and  many 
an  old  neighbor  came  in  on  a  Sunday  evening, 
dressed  in  his  best,  to  walk  in  our  garden,  and 
quietly  compliment  Mrs.  Bridget  on  the  extraordi- 
nary excellence  of  her  favorite  flowers,  or  to  beg 
a  cutting  or  a  root  of  one  or  the  other,  which  the 
kind  creature  never  refused. 

It  was  a  happy  life  I  led !  I  had  tame  rabbits, 
pet  robins,  and  a  sparrow  so  remarkably  tame,  as 
to  sit  perched  on  my  finger,  eat  from  my  lip,  come 
at  my  call,  and  nestle  in  my  bosom  to  rest  for 
hours  together.  I  had  a  cat,  and  many  families  of 
kittens,  and  a  terrier  dog,  called  Badger,  wonder- 
fully ugly,  as  every  body  protested,  but  come, 
nevertheless,  of  so  good  a  race,  as  to  be  in  general 
request  for  every  rat-catching  and  otter-hunting 
within  many  miles.  I  had  strolled  the  country 
over  in  every  direction,  and  was,  in  my  vagrant 
and  out-of-doors  life,  as  bold  and  as  independent, 
and  as  full  of  adventurous  pleasure,  as  the  most 
arrant  gypsy  that  pitched  her  tent  in  our  lanes. 
This  life  of  freedom  gave  me  the  full  use  of  all 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD.  '27 

my  limbs,  and  an  energy  and  independence  of 
character,  which  I  found  afterwards  to  be  extremely 
useful,  and  which,  in  some  degree,  counterbalanced 
the  defects  of  my  early  education. 

Such  was  I,  when  my  father  announced  his  in- 
tention of  visiting  us,  and  for  a  longer  period  than 
usual.  The  tidings  were  those  of  great  joy,  for 
dear  Mrs.  Bridget  had  always  encouraged  in  my 
young  heart  the  most  ardent  affection  for  my 
father  ;  and  perfectly  believing  that  she  had  entirely 
fulfilled  her  duty  towards  me,  she  anticipated  his 
coming  with  impatience  almost  equal  to  my  own. 
We  talked  of  it  morning,  noon,  and  night ;  and 
such  had  always  been  the  perfect  integrity  of  her 
conduct,  that  now  nothing  was  done  differently  in 
the  prospect  of  my  father's  coming,  nor  was  I  in- 
structed to  do  thus  and  thus,  nor  to  say  this  or  the 
other  before  him ;  for  Mrs.  Bridget  believed  every 
thing  had  been  done  that  he  could  desire,  and  ex- 
actly according  to  his  wishes. 

The  first  few  days  of  my  father's  visit  were  days 
of  unmingled  pleasure  :  he  found  me  grown  beyond 
his  hopes,  and  full  of  affection  and  buoyant  spirits  ; 
and  "  all  went  merrily  as  a  marriage-bell,"  till 
Sunday,  when,  as  there  was  that  day  no  service 
at  church,  my  father  took  me  by  the  hand,  and, 
seating  me  beside  him,  on  a  little  bench  in  the  or- 
chard, began  to  question  me  on  religious  subjects. 
He  had  been  himself  most  religiously  educated  in 
his  youth,  and,  I  have  heard  it  said,  had  performed 
family  worship  for  many  years,  with  wonderful 


28  MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD. 

solemnity  and  propriety,  after  his  father's  death, 
which  occurred  when  he  was  but  nine  years  old. 
He  had  always  thought  it  of  the  highest  im- 
portance that  children  should  receive  very  early 
religious  knowledge :  it  may,  therefore,  be  im- 
agined what  would  be  his  horror  to  find  me,  though 
a  Christian's  child,  as  ignorant  as  a  little  pagan. 
My  answers  to  his  questions,  and  my  remarks,  were, 
I  believe,  painfully  irrational  or  foolish ;  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  think  how  the  ignorance,  which,  in  the 
openness  of  my  nature,  I  fully  revealed,  must  have 
shocked  and  wounded  his  deeply-religious  mind. 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  agony  of  my  spirit,  when  I 
saw  him  burst  into  tears,  and  bewail  over  me  as  a 
lost,  neglected  creature.  The  sudden  sense  of  a 
great  calamity  fell  upon  me,  and  I  felt  as, if  I  had, 
in  some  way,  betrayed  a  fatal  secret,  which  would 
bring  misery  on  dear  Mrs.  Bridget ;  for  I  heard  my 
father  couple  her  name  with  epithets  which,  though 
I  could  no.t  fully  understand,  I  knew  to  be  terms 
of  reproach  and  displeasure.  After  some  time,  he 
took  me  again  by  the  hand,  and  returned  with  me 
to  the  house,  where  he  poured  out  his  great  anger 
against  the  amazed  Mrs.  Bridget.  She  had  warm 
feelings  —  loved  me  better  than  her  life,  and  be- 
lieving me  a  faultless  creature,  was  no  less  hurt 
than  angry  at  my  father's  reproaches. 

The  end  of  this  strange  and  distressing  scene 
was  my  father's  determination  to  remove  me  from 
her  guardianship ;  and,  spite  of  my  prayers  to 
remain,  and  Mrs.  Bridget's  tears,  expostulations, 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD.  29 

and  upbraidings,  she  was  ordered  to  pack  up  my 
little  wardrobe  and  prepare  me  for  a  journey  on 
the  morrow.  What  an  unhappy  evening  that  was ! 
I  sate  like  one  stupefied  with  some  strange  sorrow, 
and  many,  many  times  half  believed  it  a  painful 
dream,  from  which  I  tried  in  vain  to  wake- 
Nothing  in  the  world,  I  am  sure,  could  have  pre- 
vailed on  poor  Mrs.  Bridget  to  make  the  needful 
preparations,  but  the  knowledge  that  I  must  be  the 
sufferer  if  she  neglected  to  provide  comfortably 
for  the  journey,  which,  she  was  told,  would  be  a 
long  one. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  tell  my  young  readers  what 
a  melancholy  going-to-bed  mine  was  that  night  — 
how  the  dear,  kind  creature  wept  over  me,  and 
kissed  me,  and  folded  me  in  her  arms,  —  looking 
in  my  face  with  the  most  passionate  love,  and  then 
hiding  hers  in  her  apron  to  conceal  her  grief.  I 
laid  myself  down  upon  the  bed  where  we  had  so 
often  slept  together,  and,  burying  my  face  in  the 
pillow,  cried  myself  into  an  uneasy  slumber.  In 
the  very  early  morning  I  awoke.  All  was  still  in 
the  house,  except  the  crickets,  which  I  heard 
chirping  on  the  kitchen  hearth  —  but  no  Mrs. 
Bridget  was  in  bed  !  I  started  up  half  terrified,  and, 
drawing  the  curtain  aside,  saw,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  the  kind  creature  sitting  in  the  room,  her 
face  covered  with  both  her  hands,  and  presently 
after  heard  the  sobs  which  she  could  no  longer 
restrain.  She  had  been  busy  all  the  night  making 
preparations  for  my  journey  ;  and  now,  while  some 


30  MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER   WARD. 

little  confectionary  was  baking  in  the  oven,  had 
stolen  up  to  be  near  me,  while  I  was  yet  under  the 
same  roof. 

The  remainder  of  the  night  I  did  not  sleep,  but, 
at  my  earnest  request,  I  was  carried  down  to  the 
warm  kitchen  hearth,  where,  after  being  dressed 
with  the  most  solemn  care,  and  wrapped  in  her 
best  scarlet  cloak,  we  sat  down  to  pass  the  time 
together,  with  protestations  of  affection,  and  with 
many  tears,  till  the  early  hour  which  was  fixed  for 
my  departure. 

In  the  morning  my  father  seemed  softened  to- 
wards my  poor  friend.  He  permitted  our  tediously 
long  parting  without  impatience,  and  even  wept 
himself,  to  witness  the  vehement  sorrow  of  the  poor 
old  woman,  to  whom,  in  truth,  both  he  and  I  owed 
so  much. 

Our  journey  was  a  very  long  one ;  and  finally  I 
was  placed  under  the  care  of  a  widow  lady  of  the 
name  of  Herman,  an  early  friend  of  my  father, 
and  who,  having  lost  several  young  children  of  her 
own,  was  willing  to  receive  me  in  the  place  of  a 
little  daughter.  I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  I 
was  so  wretched  at  parting  from  dear  Mrs.  Bridget, 
that  I  closed  my  heart  against  any  one  who  might 
be  chosen  to  supply  her  place,  wiakedly  determin- 
ing not  to  love  her,  nor  even  to  miake  myself  amia- 
ble to  her.  But  the  soul  of  a  child  so  used  to  affec- 
tion as  I  had  been,  could  not  long  remain  insen- 
sible to  daily  and  hourly  kindness.  I  felt  it  instinc- 
tively in  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Herman's  voice,  in  the 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER   WARD.  31 

expression  of  her  countenance,  and  could  as  little 
resist  its  influence,  as  the  opening  flower  could 
resist  the  sunshine.  In  a  few  days,  therefore,  we 
were  better  friends  than  it  had  been  my  intention 
that  we  ever  should  become.  She  knew  all  the 
peculiar  circumstances  of  my  young  life  from  my 
father,  and,  having  won  my  confidence,  soon  pen- 
etrated my  heart  also,  and,  in  so  doing,  learned 
much  that  made  her  love  and  admire  my  poor, 
humble  friend.  She  encouraged  me  to  talk  about 
her,  and  on  this  subject  I  never  was  weary.  What 
was  my  surprise,  when,  one  day,  after  such  a  con- 
versation, she  remarked  to  my  father,  on  his  enter- 
ing the  room,  that  she  hoped  he  would  allow  Mrs. 
Bridget  to  take  up  her  residence  with  us,  and  still 
be  my  attendant,  though  under  her  own  inspection. 
My  father  seemed  amazed,  and  even  for  a  moment 
objected,  but  she  pleaded  so  kindly  for  the  poor 
woman,  urging  our  many  obligations  to  her,  and 
hoping  that  we  might  be  the  means  of  instructing 
her  on  subjects  of  which  she  seemed  so  ignorant, 
that  in  the  end  my  father  consented.  I  was  over- 
powered by  this  goodness,  and  clasping  my  arms 
round  Mrs.  Herman's  neck,  shed  tears  of  joy  and 
gratitude.  The  next  day  my  father  again  set  off 
to  our  village  to  bring  back  with  him  my  kind  and 
early  friend. 

Mrs.  Bridget  was  still  more  endeared  to  me  by 
this  short  separation ;  and  never  was  child  so  happy 
in  the  prospect  of  any  pleasure  as  I  was  in  this 
reunion.  I  fancied  to  myself  how  she  would  look, 


32  MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER   WARD. 

and  what  would  be  the  dress  in  which  she  would 
arrive  —  the  handsome  chintz  gown  and  fine  linen 
apron,  the  scarlet  cloak,  and  the  black  mode  bon- 
net, trimmed  with  old-fashioned  black  lace.  I 
described  her  over  and  over  again  to  my  new  friend, 
and  even  told  what  she  would  assuredly  say  at  our 
first  meeting.  But  I  was  wrong  :  —  my  father 
found  her  ill  in  bed  —  ill,  as  the  doctor  averred, 
from  excessive  grief;  and  although  she  rose  up,  as 
soon  as  she  heard  the  glad  tidings,  declaring  that 
she  was  able  to  undertake  the  journey  that  very 
day,  it  was  too  much  for  her,  and  I  had  to  receive 
her,  a  feeble  invalid. 

All  the  household  was  affected  by  her  arrival, 
and  the  most  unwearied  kindness  and  attention 
were  bestowed  upon  her.  These  things  all 
touched  the  good  heart  of  Mrs.  Bridget;  and 
she,  who,  like  me,  had  entered  the  house  with 
prejudice  against  its  inmates,  could  not  be  proof 
against  their  kindness. 

My  father  did  not  remain  with  us  long  enough 
to  witness  her  recovery  and  establishment  in  the 
family.  To  her  was  intrusted  the  care  of  my 
person  and  clothes,  to  which  she  had  so  long 
zealously  attended.  She  had  a  little  room  of  her 
own,  and  the  allowance  which  was  made  to  her 
formerly  being  still  continued,  made  her  a  rich 
woman. 

Now  began,  indeed,  the  golden  days  of  my  life. 
The  Bible,  which  had  been  hitherto  a  sealed  book 
to  us  both,  lay  open  before  us,  and  the  y?y  of  my 


MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD.  33 

life  was  to  sit  at  dear  Mrs.  Bridget's  knee,  and 
read  to  her  the  simple,  beautiful,  and  affecting 
narratives  it  contains.  In  her  mind  there  was 
nothing  to  counteract  the  influence  of  good ;  she 
received  it  with  the  sincerity  and  simplicity  of  a 
little  child,  and  with  the  knowledge  she  thus 
gained,  sentiments  awoke  in  her  soul  of  which 
she  had  but  little  idea  before.  Poor,  dear  Mrs. 
Bridget,  what  an  insatiable  delight  had  she  in 
those  pleasant  ancient  stories  !  Nor  was  the  pleas- 
ure I  took  in  them  less  than  hers.  With  what 
amazement  and  love  did  we  read  the  history  of 
Joseph !  His  being  torn  from  his  doting  father 
came  home  to  her  heart.  The  exploits  of  David 
—  the  lives  and  deeds  of  Elisha  and  Elijah  — the 
true-heartedness  and  affection  of  Ruth  —  the  in- 
tegrity and  wonderful  deliverance  of  the  three 
faithful  children  from  the  burning  fiery  furnace, 
and  of  Daniel  from  the  lions'  den;  —  but  above 
all,  the  history  of  the  Shunamite  woman  and  her 
little  son,  —  and  of  David  and  the  lost  child  of 
his  affections,  —  were  full  of  the  most  engrossing 
interest  to  her  ;  and  in  all  she  found  something  to 
which  her  own  heart  and  its  experience  responded. 
But  if  I  first  pointed  out  these  extraordinarily  in- 
teresting histories  to  the  dear  old  creature,  it  was 
she  who  first  awoke  my  mind  to  the  beauty,  the 
purity,  the  benevolence,  and  the  heroism,  of  the 
character  of  our  Savior. 

It  was  a  pleasant  life  that  we  now  led !     Mrs. 
Herman   always  encouraged   me  to  converse   on 


34  MRS.    BRIDGET    AND    HER    WARD. 

these  subjects,  and  to  me  they  were  the  most  de 
lightful  and  the  most  interesting  that  we  ever 
spoke  upon ;  for  she  made  religion  so  lovely  by 
the  cheerfulness  of  her  conversation,  that  L  could 
not  believe  any  one  could  ever  shrink  from  it  as  a 
gloomy  subject. 

Thus  passed  over  several  years.  In  the  mean 
time  I  was  learning  a  variety  of  things  which  it 
was  necessary  for  me  to  know  —  geography,  and 
the  natural  history  and  manners  of  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Eastern  countries,  among  the  rest.  These 
I  found  wonderfully  to  elucidate  my  knowledge 
of  the  Scripture  histories,  and  I  aspired  to  teach 
Mrs.  Bridget  the  same  ;  but  here,  poor,  dear  soul, 
she  was  as  dull  as  a  block,  and  seemed  to  compre- 
hend nothing  about  them.  Her  heart  was  not  in- 
terested by  them,  and  all  Mrs.  Bridget's  knowledge 
must  pass  through  her  affections.  I  therefore  left 
her  to  the  Bible  alone,  while  I  read  and  studied 
various  other  books  and  histories,  and  gained  as 
much  information  as  satisfied  my  friends,  if  not 
myself. 

I  need  not  pursue  the  subject  further.  My 
kind  young  readers,  who  have  gone  thus  far  with 
me,  will  be  sure  that  the  latter  days  of  poor  Mrs. 
Bridget  were  made  as  happy  as  possible  —  they 
were  so  indeed !  She  lived  to  a  good  old  age, 
and  then,  full  of  love  and  peace,  passed  to  that 
brighter  world,  for  which  the  knowledge  of  her 
latter  years  had  so  worthily  prepared  her. 


A  CHAPTER  OF  ANECDOTES. 


ANECDOTE  I. 
HOW    A    MAN    WOULD     CATCH    "  WILL-o'-THE-WISP." 

THERE  was  a  man,  once  upon  a  time,  and  with- 
in the  memory  of  several  old  people  now  living, 
who  was  bent  upon  catching  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  or, 
as  it  is  sometimes  called,  Peg-with-her-lantern. 
Nobody  but  himself  believed  he  could  do  this; 
but  he  was  himself  quite  sure  he  could  accomplish 
it ;  and  whenever  he  had  an  extra  glass  of  ale,  he 
was  always  ready  to  set  out  on  the  expedition. 
It  happened,  therefore,  one  night,  as  he  came  from 
Denby,  a  village  in  Derbyshire,  (the  village  where 
Flamstead,  the  astronomer,  was  born,)  not  remark- 
ably sober,  and  yet  steady  enough  to  keep  his 
ground,  he  resolved  to  make  the  attempt.  What  he 
meant  to  do  with  Peg  when  he  caught  her,  I  do  not 
know;  perhaps  he  did  not  exactly  know  himself ; 
nor  am  I  sure  that  he  had  any  idea  what  sort  of  a 
thing  she  would  prove ;  but  mystery,  some  people 
think,  makes  things  more  interesting,  and  so,  I 
suppose,  it  was  in  his  case.  On  he  went,  there- 


OO  A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES. 

fore,  towards  some  old  fish-ponds,  where  there  was 
a  long  arid  wide  morass ;  and  immediately,  as  if 
fortune  would  favor  him,  he  descried  the  object 
of  his  desire,  glimmering  out  before  him.  Off  he 
went,  floundering  and  plunging  like  a  wild  horse, 
through  bog  and  over  bush ;  but  when  he  had 
reached  the  spot,  she  had  vanished,  and  again 
gleamed  out  before  him  like  a  little  spark,  at  the 
distance  of  a  hundred  yards.  But  as  he  expected 
to  have  some  trouble  in  taking  her,  he  was  not  to 
be  easily  daunted,  and  vowing  to  make  sure  of  her 
at  last,  off  he  went  again.  Peg,  however,  as  wild 
and  nimble  as  her  brother  Jack-o'-lantern,  had 
set  off  again  as  far  away  to  the  right  hand.  To  the 
right,  therefore,  he  went ;  but  when  he  got  there, 
through  bush,  through  brake,  off  she  had  skipped 
away  to  the  left,  and  he,  nothing  dismayed,  went  off, 
like  a  bold  hunter,  in  that  direction.  Peg  now 
seemed  in  a  much  quieter  and  steadier  humor, 
and  the  nearer  he  came,  the  brighter  she  gleamed 
and  glimmered  —  now,  for  a  moment,  dimming 
herself,  then  again  shining  out  clearer  than  ever. 
Our  pursuer,  certain  of  the  prize,  threw  off  his  coat, 
which  had\  somewhat  impeded  his  motions,  and 
chuckling  to  himself  over  the  prize  he  was  about  to 
win,  sprang  forward  with  outstretched  arms  to 
seize  her,  uttering  an  exultant  shout  of  "  Now  I 
have  you  ! "  and  plunged  his  arms  up  to  his  shoul- 
ders in  a  peat-fire. 


A    CHAPTER    OP    ANECDOTES.  37 

ANECDOTE  II. 
OF    A    RAVEN   THAT    WENT    TO    A    FAIR. 

THERE  was,  some  fifty  years  ago,  a  cunning  and 
mischievous  raven,  named  Ralph,  kept  at  a  lone- 
some farm-house  in  Derbyshire.  He  was  a  great 
favorite  with  all  the  family,  though  he  often  created 
much  annoyance  and  trouble  by  his  thievish  tricks. 
Whatever  came  in  his  way,  which  was  not  too 
heavy  for  him  to  lift,  he  carried  off;  yet,  though 
every  one  knew  who  was  the  thief,  he  seldom  came 
in  for  punishment,  the  servants  and  different 
members  of  the  family  being  blamed  instead,  for 
leaving  things  in  his  way.  Notwithstanding  the 
care,  however,  which  every  body  took  to  put  things 
in  their  places,  Ralph  found  many  a  little  article  of 
which  he  made  prize,  and  many  a  one  which  was 
never  missed  at  the  time. 

After  Ralph  had  practised  his  thievery,  and  in- 
dulged his  habit  of  secretiveness  for  some  years, 
all  his  hoard  came  one  day  suddenly  to  light.  He 
had  buried  it  in,  as  he  thought,  a  cunning  hole 
that  he  had  made  in  the  thatched  roof  of  a  barn. 
His -treasures  grew  and  grew,  and  the  hole  had  been 
deepened  and  deepened,  till  it  was  as  deep  as  the 
thatch  itself,  and  then  all  his  accumulation  fell 
through  upon  the  barn  floor.  And  what  a  won- 
derful accumulation  there  was  !  —  thimbles,  small 
pieces  of  money,  balls  of  cotton,  knitting-needles, 
4 


38  A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES. 

curtain-rings,  one  or  two  gold  rings,  a  brooch, 
sleeve-buttons,  two  salt-spoons,  a  mustard-pot  lid, 
a  seal  and  the  gold-setting  of  a  seal,  combs,  little 
old  housewives,  pincushions,  buckles,  hair-pins, 
and  all  the  multitude  of  small  things  that  abound 
in  the  houses  of  tolerably  well-conditioned  people. 
There  was  a  world  of  amusement  in  the  owning  of 
Ralph's  treasury,  and  many  an  old  forgotten  thing 
was  brought  to  light,  and  many  another  was  found 
of  which  nobody  could  give  any  account. 

The  winter  after  this  event,  poor  Ralph  came  to 
an  untimely  end.  The  travelling  tailor  who  used 
to  come  now  and  then  to  the  house,  to  make  and 
mend  the  clothes  of  the  family,  had  made  him,  of 
scarlet  cloth,  a  comb  and  wattles,  like  those  of  a 
chanticleer,  which  he  allowed  to  be  put  on,  and 
seemed  to  wear  with  as  much  pride  as  a  young 
soldier  wears  his  new  uniform.  Not  long  after 
being  thus  accoutred,  there  chanced  to  be  a  fair 
in  the  neighborhood,  and,  as  several  members  of 
the  family  went  to  it,  Ralph  saw  no  reason  why  he 
might  not  go  also.  Off,  therefore,  he  flew  after 
them,  and,  arriving  in  the  height  of  the  fair,  perched 
upon  the  roof  of  a  house  which  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  bustle.  The  poor  fellow  had  all  his  bravery 
on,  and  was  immediately  descried,  every  body 
taking  him  for  some  wonderful  bird,  and  every  body 
being  desirous  of  securing  him. 

Unfortunately,  a  man  with  a  gun  was  at  hand,  and, 
to  make  sure  of  so  strange  a  creature  while  he  was 
within  reach,  fired  at  him ;  and  poor  Ralph  and  his 


A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES.  39 

bravery  fell  together.  Hardly  had  he  reached  the 
ground,  when  his  old  friends  of  the  farm  came  up 
with  a  crowd  that  had  been  drawn  to  the  spot  by 
the  firing  of  the  gun,  and  in  the  strange,  nondescript 
creature  they  instantly  recognized  their  old  favor- 
ite. Great  was  the^lamentation  that  was  made 
over  him,  and  loud  and  vehement  their  indignation 
at  the  impatient  rabble  who  had  so  summarily 
ended  his  days.  His  sagacity  was  an  endless  theme 
of  discourse ;  story  after  story  was  told  of  him,  and 
so  great  was  the  sympathy  of  all  the  fair-going 
people,  that  for  some  time  they  forgot  the  amuse- 
ments that  surrounded  them,  to  condole  over  the 
unfortunate  raven  that  came  to  the  fair  in  all  his 
finery  to  meet  so  tragic  an  end. 


ANECDOTE  III. 
HOW    A    BULFINCH    DIED    OF    JOY. 

THERE  was  once  a  bulfinch  kept  by  a  lady, 
which  was  so  extremely  fond  of  her  as  to  exceed 
any  instance  of  attachment  I  ever  heard  of  before. 
Her  presence  created  a  sort  of  sunshine  to  him,  and 
he  sung  and  rejoiced  with  his  whole  heart  when 
she  was  by ;  while  he  drooped  in  her  absence,  and 
would  sit  silent  in  his  cage  for  whole  days  to- 


40  A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES. 

The  lady  fell  sick,  and  was  confined  to  her  bed 
for  a  week  with  so  severe  an  illness  as  to  be  en- 
tirely disabled  from  thinking  of  the  bird.  At 
length,  when  she  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  see 
him,  she  ordered  his  cage  to  be  brought  and  set 
upon  the  bed  beside  her.  The  poor  bird  knew 
her  voice  in  an  instant,  though  it  was  weak  and 
low  with  her  extreme  fever.  The  cage-door  was 
opened ;  he  uttered  a  shrill  cry  between  a  song 
and  a  scream  —  fluttered  from  her  hand  to  her 
cheek,  and  then  fell  down,  dead! 


ANECDOTE  IV. 
ABOUT    A   MAN   AND    A    BEAR. 

WHEN  I  was  wandering  in  the  backwoods  of 
North  America,  (said  a  traveller,)  I  came  one  day 
upon  an  old  tnan,  the  most  picturesque  object  1 
ever  saw  :  his  dress  was  of  coarse  home  manufac- 
ture, and  was  rudely  shaped  to  his  large-boned 
person,  probably  by  the  hands  of  some  female 
tailor.  His  clothes  were  torn  by  wandering  among 
forests,  and  literally  hung  about  him  in  shreds  and 
tatters ;  and  amid  the  various  parts  of  his  wearing 
apparel,  several  little  articles  of  Indian  manufac- 
ture were  to  be  seen.  Over  his  deer-skin  leggins 
he  wore  the  curiously  wrought  moccasins  or  Indian 


A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES.  41 

shoes  :  in  the  place  of  a  hat,  he  had  a  scarlet 
wampum-belt  bound  round  his  head,  and  he 
smoked  from  an  Indian  pipe.  Notwithstanding 
this  curious  costume,  his  countenance  showed  at  a 
glance  that  he  belonged  to  civilized  society ;  and 
his  friendly  salutation,  spoken  in  good  English, 
sounded  delightful  to  me,  after  having  ceased  to 
hear  my  native  tongue  for  many  weeks. 

The  old  man  sat  upon  a  fallen  tree,  and  seemed 
to  have  just  taken  his  repast ;  for  his  dried  venison 
and  Indian  bread,  and  yet  open  wallet,  lay  before 
him.  I  needed  no  second  invitation  to  partake 
his  seat ;  and,  drawing  forth  my  own  store  of  pro- 
vision, followed  his  example. 

My  old  man  of  the  woods  was  a  surveyor,  em- 
ployed by  the  American  government  to  measure 
and  set  out  tracts  of  land  in  the  back  settlements. 
It  was  a  wild  and  lonely  life  that  he  led,  and  one 
which  afforded  him  continual  opportunity  of  gain- 
ing knowledge  of  Indian  life  and  character,  and 
of  observing  the  habits  of  the  beasts  and  birds  of 
the  wilderness. 

The  bears,  he  told  me,  were  the  most  trouble- 
some neighbors  he  had  in  his  out-of-doors  life; 
and  he  said  that  he  was  obliged  to  hang  the  wallet 
containing  his  provisions  in  a  tree  while  he  slept, 
otherwise  these  audacious  creatures  would  steal  it, 
even  from  under  his  head.  He  was  sleeping,  he 
said,  one  night,  with  his  wallet  for  his  pillow, 
when  he  was  awoke  by  something  violently  tug- 
ging at  it.  He  started  up,  and  saw  in  the  early 
4* 


42  A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES. 

dawn  a  shaggy,  black  bear :  he  rose,  and,  opening 
his  bag,  threw  him  a  large  piece  of  his  dried  veni- 
son, saying,  "  There,  take  that,  and  welcome  ! " 
The  bear  snapped  it  up,  and  then  stood  waiting 
for  more  :  he  threw  him  another  piece,  saying, 
"  Take  that  then,  and  prithee,  begone !  "  Again 
the  bear  stood  in  expectation.  A  third  time  he 
threw  him  a  slice,  exclaiming,  "Why,  thou'st  no 
conscience; — take  that,  and  be  satisfied!"  But 
the  bear,  still  insatiable,  gulped  down  the  third 
piece  with  a  great  swallow,  and  again  stood  wait- 
ing for  more.  At  this,  the  man's  patience  came 
to  an  end,  and  heaving  up  his  great  staff,  he  gave 
him  a  lusty  blow  on  his  head,  bellowing  at  the 
highest  pitch  of  his  voice,  "  Take  that  then,  and 
be  off  with  thee !  "  Upon  this,  the  bear,  uttering  a 
loud  cry,  trotted  away  into  the  woods,  and  the  old 
man  saw  no  more  of  him  ;  but  after  this  adventure, 
he  took  care  to  hang  his  provisions  far  enough  out 
of  the  reach  of  the  bears. 


ANECDOTE    V. 

OP   A   DOG   THAT    COULD    AND    COULD    NOT    RECKON 
TIME. 

MANY  persons  think  that  dogs,  however  saga- 
cious,  have  no  notion  of  the  recurrence  of  periods 


A    CHAPTER   OF   ANECDOTES.  43 

of  time,  unless  they  are  guided  by  external  signs ; 
as,  for  instance,  the  return  of  the  Sunday  by  the 
cessation  of  the  week's  labor.  But  there  was  a 
dog  which  was  guided  by  something  beyond  this 
in  his  calculation  of  times,  and  of  him  I  am  about 
to  give  an  anecdote.  He  was  a  white  terrier,  of  a 
good  race,  and  his  name  was  Pry ;  and,  though  ac- 
tive and  clever  in  the  pursuit  of  vermin,  not  re- 
markably gifted  with  any  great  intellectual  powers. 
He  belonged  to  a  family  of  the  society  of  Friends, 
who  lived  in  a  country  place,  and  who  were  in  the 
habit  of  attending  their  meeting  —  their  week-day 
meeting,  as  they  called  it — on  the  Thursday, 
some  two  miles  off,  in  a  lonely  and  rather  wild 
place.  Pry  took  it  into  his  head  that  he,  too, 
would  attend  the  meeting :  it  was  famous  sport  for 
him  to  run  up  and  about  the  wild  hollows,  and 
deep  lanes,  and  water-courses,  that  lay  between  his 
home  and  the  meeting-house ;  and  such  an  amuse- 
ment, once  a  week,  would  not  have  been  denied 
to  him,  had  he  been  contented  to  stay  quietly  in 
the  stable  with  the  horses,  or  lie  outside  the  door 
till  his  master  was  ready  to  return  home.  But  Pry 
had  a  will  of  his  own,  and  he  chose  to  lie  at  his 
master's  feet  in  summer,  and  before  the  warm 
stove  in  winter,  while  the  Friends  continued  their 
sitting  together ;  and  though  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged that  his  behavior  was  unexceptionable,  still 
it  was  looked  upon  as  somewhat  indecorous  to  in- 
troduce a  dog  into  so  grave  a  company.  The 
family,  therefore,  well  knowing  the  pertinacity  of 


44  A    CHAPTER   OP    ANECDOTES. 

Pry's  temper,  gave  orders  that  he  should  be  tied 
up  on  meeting-mornings,  and  thus  kept  at  home 
perforce.  For  a  week  or  two  this  was  done  to 
poor  Pry's  great  discomfort,  but  at  length  he  out- 
witted them.  On  these  mornings  he  was  never  to 
be  found ;  so  that  he  secured  his  own  liberty,  and 
then  joined  his  master  about  half  way  on  the  road, 
or  rather  kept  him  in  view,  and  demurely  followed 
him  to  the  place  of  worship.  After  a  little  time 
longer,  when  he  supposed  the  discipline  to  have 
somewhat  relaxed,  though  he  would  never  venture 
his  liberty  within  the  house  on  these  especial 
mornings,  not  even  to  come  for  his  breakfast,  he 
took  his  station  at  the  top  of  the  village  street, 
within  sight  of  the  door  and  windows  of  his  mas- 
ter's house,  and  there  patiently  waited  till  he  saw 
signs  of  setting  out,  and  then  trotted  on  in  great 
security  and  good  humor.  When  Pry's  master 
saw,  by  all  these  stratagems,  and  all  this  doggish 
wisdom,  that  he  was  bent  upon  his  purpose,  he 
made  no  further  opposition,  and  Pry  became  a 
regular  and  authorized  attender  of  Friends'  meet- 
ings. But  now  comes  the  singularity  of  the  story. 
About  once  in  every  two  months  the  meeting  was 
held  at  a  distant  place,  which  the  family  but  rarely 
attended.  The  dog  knew  when  the  regular  day 
of  the  week  recurred,  and  invariably  set  out,  trot- 
ting by  himself  to  the  very  meeting-house  door, 
which,  when  he  found  shut,  he  examined  with  a 
curious  kind  of  canine  wonderment:  and  then, 
after  having  walked  over  the  grave-yard,  and  round 


A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES.  45 

and  into  the  stable,  without  finding  any  token  of 
arrival,  sedately  turned  back  again,  and  though  ap- 
parently perplexed  and  disappointed,  soon  set  his 
nose  to  the  ground,  and  traced  out  all  the  wonders 
of  the  homeward  way. 

Now,  that  a  dog  should  know  when  it  was  the 
meeting-day  by  some  external  signs,  as  the  bring- 
ing up  of  a  horse,  the  putting  on  of  his  masters 
gaiters,  or  perhaps  by  the  conversation  of  the 
family,  does  not  seem  so  extraordinary,  consid- 
ering the  wonderful  instances  of  canine  acute- 
ness  which  we  have  on  record ;  but  that  he  should 
actually  know,  without  ever  mistaking  it,  when 
the  day  came  —  though  there  was  no  outward  sign 
of  preparation — nor  even  conversation  about  it 
—  certainly  was  singular.  The  dog,  though  he 
had  intellect  enough  to  know  the  recurring  day  in 
seven,  had  yet  not  sufficient  intellect  to  discover 
the  regular  exception,  which  happened  about 
every  eighth  week. 


ANECDOTE  VI. 
OF    A    RAVEN    THAT    HAD    A    DINNER    PARTY. 

THERE  was  a  raven  kept  a  few  years  ago  at 
Newhaven  —  an  inn  on  the  road  between  Buxton 
and  Ashbourn.  This  bird  had  been  taught  to 


46  A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES. 

call  the  poultry,  and,  like  the  parrot  of  Paraguay, 
could  do  it  very  well  too.  One  day,  —  the  table 
being  set  out  for  the  coach-passengers'  dinner,  — 
the  cloth  was  laid,  with  the  knives  and  forks, 
spoons,  mats,  and  bread,  and  in  that  state  it  was 
left  for  some  time,  the  room  door  being  shut, 
though  the  window  was  open.  The  raven  had 
watched  the  operation  very  quietly,  and,  as  we 
may  suppose,  felt  a  strong  ambition  to  do  the  like. 
When  the  coach  was  just  arriving,  the  dinner 
was  carried  in  —  but,  behold!  the  whole  para- 
phernalia of  the  dinner-table  had  vanished — silver 
spoons,  knives,  forks,  all  gone!  But  what  was 
the  surprise  and  amusement  to  see,  through  the 
open  window,  upon  a  heap  of  rubbish  in  the  yard, 
the  whole  array  very  carefully  set  out,  and  the 
raven  performing  the  honors  of  the  table  to  a 
numerous  company  of  poultry  which  he  had  sum- 
moned about  him,  and  was  very  consequentially 
regaling  with  bread ! 


ANECDOTE   VII. 
HOW    A    BOY    TOOK    A    FLIGHT. 

THERE  is  a  story,  and  which  I  believe  is  a  fact, 
of  two  boys  going  to  take  a  jack-daw's  nest  from 
a  hole  under  the  belfry  window  in  the  tower  of 


A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES.  47 

All-Saints'  Church,  Derby.  As  it  was  impossible 
to  reach  the  nest  while  standing  within  the  build- 
ing, and  equally  impossible  to  ascend  to  that 
height  from  without,  they  determined  to  put  a 
plank  through  the  window,  and  while  the  heavier 
boy  secured  its  balance  by  sitting  on  the  end 
within,  the  lighter  boy  was  to  fix  himself  on  the 
opposite  end,  and,  from  that  perilous  situation,  to 
reach  the  object  of  their  desire.  So  far  the 
scheme  answered  according  to  their  wishes.  The 
little  fellow  took  the  nest,  and,  finding  in  it  five 
fledged  young  birds,  announced  the  news  to  his 
companion. 

"  Five  are  there?  "  replied  he  ;  "  then  I'll  have 
three ! " 

"  Three !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  indignantly. 
"No,  I  ran  all  the  danger,  and  I  will  have  the 
three  !  " 

"  You  shall  not,"  still  maintained  the  boy  in 
the  inside  —  "  you  shall  not !  Promise  me  three, 
or  I'll  drop  you  !  " 

"  Drop  me  and  welcome,"  replied  our  little 
hero ;  "  but  I  will  promise  you  no  more  than 
two  ! " 

The  boy  inside  slipped  off  the  plank,  the  end 
tilted  up,  and  down  went  the  lesser  boy  upwards 
of  a  hundred  feet  to  the  ground.  At  the  moment 
of  his  fall,  he  was  holding  his  prize  by  the  legs, 
two  in  one  hand  and  three  in  the  other,  and  the 
birds,  finding  themselves  descending,  instinctively 
fluttered  out  their  pinions.  But  it  was  not  these 


48  A    CHAPTER    OP    ANECDOTES. 

alone  which  saved  the  boy.  He  had  on  a  stout 
new  carter's  frock,  secured  round  the  neck,  and 
this,  filling  with  air  from  beneath,  buoyed  him  up 
like  a  balloon,  and  he  descended  smoothly  to  the 
ground,  alighting,  like  a  cat,  on  his  legs;  and 
then  looking  up,  he  exclaimed  to  his  companion, 
"  Now  you  shall  have  none ! "  and  ran  away, 
sound  in  limb,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  inhab- 
itants, who,  with  inconceivable  horror,  had  wit- 
nessed his  descent 


ANECDOTE  VIII. 
HOW    A  JEST   WAS    NO   JOKE. 

WHEN  I  was  a  little  child  of  five  or  six  years 
old,  I  and  my  sister,  rather  older  than  myself, 
were  taken  by  our  father  to  spend  a  summer's 
day  in  Needwood  Forest.  We  were  little  wild 
things,  as  brown  and  as  hardy  as  gypsies,  and 
many  a  long,  happy  day  we  had  spent  under  the 
forest-trees,  dining  in  woodmen's  cottages,  or,  if 
none  were  at  hand,  by  the  side  of  a  little  running 
stream  in  some  old  woodland  hollow. 

Towards  noon,  on  one  of  these  happy  days,  as 
we  were  wearied  with  a  long  morning's  ramble, 
we  were  left  to  recover  from  our  fatigue  under 
the  spreading  shade  of  an  immense  tree,  like 


A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES,  49 

fairies  in  a  fairy-tale ;  looking  as  diminutive  as 
they  in  proportion  to  this  giant  of  the  forest, 
and  being  almost  lost  among  its  curled  and  twisted 
roots,  which  were  heaved  up,  old,  and  mossed,  and 
rugged,  and  wreathed  together  like  a  nest  of  angry 
snakes,  which  had  been  turned  to  stone,  ages  and 
ages  before.  Around  us  lay  a  small  opening  of 
forest  glade,  covered  with  short,  green  grass,  upon 
which  the  sunshine  fell  with  such  soft  light  as  to 
give  it  the  color  of  clear  emerald  ;  this  was  en- 
closed by  thickets  of  black  holly,  which,  in  con- 
trast with  the  light  fore-ground,  looked  still  more 
intensely  dark  :  under  and  among  these  grew  the 
greenwood-laurel,  with  its  clusters  of  poisonous- 
looking  berries,  and  whole  beds  of  the  fair,  white 
stellaria,  shining  like  stars  (whence  its  name) 
among  its  grass-like  leaves  of  tender  green.  In 
other  spots  grew  clusters  of  the  dark,  mysterious- 
looking  enchanter's  nightshade  ;  and  the  singular 
and  rare  four-leaved  Herb-Paris,  or  True-love, 
bearing  its  berry-like  flower  at  the  central  angles 
of  its  four  leaves. 

There  was  an  undefined  feeling,  half  of  pleasure 
and  half  of  pain,  in  being  left  alone  in  so  wild  a 
spot.  We  heard  the  crow  of  the  distant  pheasant, 
the  coo-coo  of  the  wood-pigeon,  and  the  laugh- 
like  cry  of  the  wood-pecker  ;  and  these,  though 
familiar  to  us,  seemed  strangely  to  add  to  the 
solitariness  of  the  scene.  And  yet  it  was  very 
delightful.  We  talked  cheerfully  of  every  thing 
around  us;  watched  the  hare  run  past,  or  from 
5 


£0  A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES. 

•thicket  to  thicket ;  and  the  starling  creep  up  the 
old  trees,  and  the  little  birds  fly  in  and  out  from 
-their  woody  screens,  with  more  than  common  in- 
terest. But  at  length,  after  long  watching  and 
long  observation,  we  remarked  to  each  other  a 
strange,  unceasing,  low  sound,  which  we  could  not 
comprehend  ;  it  seemed  to  keep  up  a  perpetual 
chirr-chirr-r-r-ing,  somewhere  near  us,  but  exactly 
where,  we  could  not  tell.  At  times  it  appeared 
just  beside  us,  and  then  half  the  glade's  distance 
off;  now  it  was  high,  now  low,  now  on  this  side, 
now  on  that — the  strangest,  most  perplexing,  and 
incomprehensible  sound  we  had  ever  heard. 

In  the  midst  of  our  wonderment  and  lack  of 
counsel,  up  came  a  stout  forest-boy,  of  twelve 
years,  or  thereabouts.  He  was  a  brown  and  wild- 
looking  creature,  like  a  very  satyr  of  the  woods  : 
he  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  leather,  had  a  belt 
Tound  his  waist,  in  which  he  carried  his  wood- 
knife,  and  on  his  back  was  a  bundle  of  fagots. 
As  he  came  up,  he  seemed  amazed  to  find  two 
children,  like  the  Babes  in  the  Wood,  seated  hand 
in  hand  at  the  foot  of  an  old  tree,  and  made  a 
pause  to  look  at  us.  We  were  not  alarmed  at  his 
strange  appearance,  for  such  figures,  in  such  gro- 
tesque garbs,  were  familiar  to  us  in  our  forest 
wanderings  ;  so,  hailing  him  as  a  friend  and  coun- 
seller,  we  demanded  what  was  that  strange,  low 
voice,  which  we  heard  somewhere  thereabout. 

The  boy  looked  at  us  for  half  a  moment  with  a, 
sort  of  grin,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  look  of  fear, 


A    CHAPTER    OF   ANECDOTES.  51 

half  bending  his  body  and  speaking  in  a  low  but 
distinctly  articulated  whisper  —  "  It's  my  Lord 
Vernon's  blood-hounds,"  said  he ;  "  they  are  out 
hunting,  and  yon  sounds  are  the  chains  which 
they  drag  after  them  I "  and  so  saying  he  dashed 
off  like  a  wild  stag. 

What  a  horror  now  fell  upon  us  I  The  glade 
was  like  an  enchanted  forest :  all  at  once  the  trees 
seemed  to  swell  out  to  the  most  gigantic  and  ap- 
palling size  ;  every  twisted  root  seemed  a  writhing 
snake,  and  every  old  wreathed  branch  a  down- 
bending  adder  ready  to  devour  us.  The  holly 
thickets  seemed  full  of  an  increasing  blackness, 
which,  like  a  dreadful  dream,  appeared  growing- 
upon  our  imagination  till  it  was  too  horrible  to  be 
borne.  We  felt  *r.  if  hemmed  in  by  a  mighty 
wilderness  of  gloom  that  cut  us  off  from  our  kin- 
dred, and  still  the  chirr-r-chirr-r  of  the  terrible 
hounds  and  their  dragging  chains  sounded  through 
the  dreadful  silence,  and  seeming  to  our  affrighted 
senses  to  come  nearer  and  nearer,  well  nigh  drove 
us  distracted.  What  indeed  would  have  become 
of  us,  I  know  not,  had  we  been  left  to  ourselves 
and  our  terrors ;  but  our  cry  of  "  Father  !  father ! " 
speedily  brought  him  to  us,  and  the  enchantment 
fled  with  his  presence.  The  laugh  with  which  he 
heard  our  story  dispelled  the  whole  terror  of  it.. 
"  It  is  the  grasshopper,  and  nothing  more,"  said 
he,  "  which  has  caused  all  this  foolish  alarm ;  '* 
and  then  listening  for  a  moment,  he  traced  it  by 
its  sound  among  the  short,  dry>  sunny  grass,  ani 


O;J  A    CHAPTER    OF    ANECDOTES. 

then  held  it  in  his  hand  before  us.  "  And  yet  he 
was  a  wicked  boy,"  continued  our  father,  "  who 
told  a  falsehood  to  frighten  you  thus.  But  come, 
now  you  shall  go  to  your  dinner  ; "  and  so  saying, 
and  taking  one  by  each  hand,  he  led  us  from  the 
enchanted  glade  to  a  woodman's  cottage  in  the 
next  dell. 


TO    HIS    COUSIN.  55* 

of  the  world  was  certainly  coming,  with  thumping 
and  drumming,  and  running  about,  the  most  horri- 
ble rout  —  with  the  squall  of  a  cat  and  the  cry  of 
a  bird,  such  a  racket  as  ne'er  out  of  Bedlam  was 
heard  1 

Well,  you  may  be  sure  this  could  not  endure 
without  in  a  flurry  and  very  great  hurry  all  running 
to  see  what  the  matter  could  be.  And  Martha  and 
Jane,  and  stout  Adam  Blane,  and  old  Thomas  and 
I,  we  determined  to  try  if  we  could  not  find  out 
what  the  noise  was  about ;  so  up  stairs  and  down 
we  went  over  the  house,  and  left  not  a  corner  to 
harbor  a  mouse.  The  old  clock  was  ticking,  the 
crickets  were  clicking ;  the  little  canary  hung  up 
in  the  dairy,  and  the  guinea-pig  lay  fast  asleep  in 
the  hay,  and  there  was  not  a  trace  of  a  thing  out 
of  place.  But  just  at  the  moment,  when  we  had 
got  no  scent,  again  it  was  heard,  so  loud,  on  my 
word,  that  we  started  each  man,  and  the  women 
looked  wan,  with  a  terrified  stare,  as  they  whispered> 
"'Tis  there!"  Then  old  Thomas  Baffin  did 
straight  fall  a- laughing,  and  bade  us  all  follow ;  and 
off  with  a  "  Hollo  I "  ran  up  the  back  stairs,  shout- 
ing, "  I'll  give  you  bones,  to  rattle  like  stones !  You 
dog  and  you  cat,  what  would  you  be  at  ? "  Says 
Martha  to  Jane,  "  Why,  he's  mad,  and  that's 
plain  !  let's  go  up  to  Missis',  and  say  how  strange 
this  is  ! "  But  I  answered,  "  O  no,  you  shall  not 
do  so ;  you  would  frighten  my  poor  mother  out  of 
her  wits :  why,  you  look  as  if  both  were  just  falling 
,in  fits  —  what  a  couple  of  cowards  you  are  to  be 


56  MATTHEW    NOGGINS'S    LETTER 

sure  !  Nay,  stay  by  the  fire  if  you  dare  go  no  higher, 
and  Adam  and  I  will  go  up  and  spy  what  this 
horrible  riot  and  racket  can  be." 

Now  mark,  you  are  told  that  I  looked  very  bold  ; 
but,  Peter,  my  dear,  let  me  say  in  your  ear,  that  I 
certainly  felt  as  if  going  to  melt ;  for  I  heard  such 
a  battering,  such  thundering  and  clattering,  and 
Thomas  a-calling,  as  if  for  help  bawling,  that  I 
felt  half  inclined  to  alter  my  mind,  and  not  back 
the  fellow,  howe'er  he  might  bellow. 

But  on  with  my  letter —  my  pride  got  the  better 
—  so  bidding  my  cowardice  go  to  the  wall,  I  up 
stairs  ascended  to  see  the  thing  ended,  and  know 
what  old  Thomas  had  found,  after  all.  Well, 
when  I  got  there,  at  the  top  of  the  stair,  I  turned 
round  to  see  where  Adam  might  be  ;  but,  thank  ye, 
no  Adam  had  ventured  with  me !  However,  I  heard 
where  old  Thomas  Baffin  was  chuckling  and  laugh- 
ing, and  "  Come  up,"  says  he,  "  and  then  you  shall 
see  what  this  riot  and  rout  has  been  all  about ! " 
So  through  his  own  chamber,  I  onward  did  clam- 
ber, and  out  on  the  leads  saw  a  cluster  of  heads, 
and  'mong  them  old  Thomas's  face  with  a  grin  of 
the  merriest  meaning  that  ever  was  seen.  "  O 
master,"  says  he,  "  come  up  here  to  me,  and  I'll 
show  you  a  sight  worth  another  such  fright !  " 
Well,  I  went  up,  and  what  do  you  think  I  should 
find  ?  Old  Growler  and  Vixen  the  cat,  and  the 
raven  that's  blind  ;  —  and  betwixt  them  a  great  big 
shin-bone  of  a  horse,  which  they  jumbled  about 
without  any  remorse  —  and  gnawed  at,  and  clawed 


TO    HIS    COUSIN.  57 

at  —  and   fought   for,   like    mad ;  and   a  terrible 
battle  no  doubt  they  had  had ! 

But  ere  I  have  done  I  must  tell  you  the  fun  we 
had  in  expelling  the  ghost  from  the  dwelling.  Down 
stairs  in  a  flurry,  we  drove  hurry-scurry,  with  a 
"  Whist !  "  and  a  "  Hey !  "  old  Vixen  away  ;  then 
Growler  went  next,  half  ashamed  and  perplexed, 
with  his  great  dangling  tail  like  a  torn  windmill 
sail ;.  and  after  him  blundering  the  big  bone  went 
thundering  —  knock  —  knock  down  the  stairs  at  a 
terrible  rate,  and  gave  our  friend  Adam  a  bump  on 
the  pate ;  but  ere  he  had  time  for  a  grunt  or  a 
groan,  flap,  flap  went  the  blind  raven  over  the 
bone,  right  into  the  kitchen  both  croaking  and 
screeching ! 

Next  after  the  three  came   down  Thomas  and 
me;  very  great  with  our  glory,  as  you  may  con- 
ceive.   So  here  ends  my  story,  and  I  take  my  leave ; 
and  the  sooner,  the  better,  you  send  me  a  letter. 
So,  Peter,  good  by : 

-You  know  well  that  I 

Am  your  friend,  as  of  old, 

MATTHEW  NOGGINS  of  Wold. 

June,  1835. 


THE  THREE  WISHES. 


"WELL,"  said  George,  "if  I  might  choose,  Pd 
rather  be  Julius  Caesar  than  any  man  that  ever 
lived  !  He  was  a  fine  fellow ;  he  conquered  all  the 
then  known  world — from  the  pyramids  of  Egypt 
to  the  island  of  Thule  —  from  the  most  remote 
provinces  of  Asia  Minor  to  the  western  shores  of 
the  Peninsula.  In  ten  years  only,  he  took  eight 
hundred  cities,  subdued  three  hundred  nations, 
and  left  above  a  million  of  enemies  dead  upon  his 
fields  of  battle !  Now  he  was  a  hero !  And  what 
a  glorious  thing  it  must  have  been,  after  subduing 
Britons,  Gauls,  Germans,  and  Russians,  to  return 
with  his  triumphant  legions,  laden  with  spoil,  and 
leading  kings  captive,  a  conqueror  through  the 
streets  of  Rome  !  I  never  think  of  Julius  Caesar 
without  longing  to  be  a  soldier.  '  He  came  — 
he  saw  —  he  conquered  ! '  How  famous  that  was ! 
I  wish  I  had  lived  in  his  days ;  or,  better  still,  1 
wish  there  was  another  world  to  conquer,  and  I 
were  the  Julius  Caesar  to  do  it ! " 

"  Upon  my  word ! "  said  Charles,  "  mighty 
grand !  but  if  I  might  choose,  I  would  rather  be 
Cicero,  Pd  rather  be  an  orator  ten  thousand 


THE    THREE    WISHES. 

times  than  a  warrior,  though  he  were  Julius  Caesar 
himself.  Only  think,  George,  when  you  came  to 
die,  how  should  you  like  to  have  the  blood  of  a 
million  of  men  on  your  conscience  ?  Depend 
upon  it,  it's  not  such  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  con- 
queror, after  all !  But  an  orator  !  his  is  a  glorious 
character  indeed.  He  gains  victories  over  mil- 
lions, without  shedding  one  drop  of  blood  !  Now 
let  us  match  ourselves  one  against  the  other ;  you 
a  warrior,  I  an  orator  —  each,  let  us  suppose,  the 
most  accomplished  in  the  world.  What  can  you 
do  without  your  legions  and  your  arms  ?  With 
ten  thousand  men  at  your  back,  armed  at  all  points, 
where,  pray,  is  the  wonder  that  you  take  possession 
of  a  city  or  a  country,  weakly  defended  perhaps, 
both  by  men  and  means  ?  But  place  me  among 
savages,  (provided  only  I  can  speak  their  tongue,} 

—  give  me  no  arms  —  no  money ;  nay,  even  strip 
me  of  my  clothes,  and  leave  me  a  defenceless,  soli- 
tary being  among  thousands,  and  what  will  follow  ? 

—  I   will    draw    tears   from    the   stoniest-hearted 
among  them  ;  —  they  shall  give  me  bread  to  eat, 
clothing  to  wear,  —  they  shall   build  a  house  to 
cover  me,  —  and,  if  my  ambition  extend  so  far, 
they  shall  choose  me  for  their  king ;  and  this  only 
by  the  words  of  my  mouth !     Now  who,  I  ask  you, 
is  most  powerful,  you  or  I? 

"  You  think  it  was  a  glorious  thing  for  Julius 
Csesar  to  pass  with  his  captives  through  the  streets 
of  Rome.  I  think  it  was  glorious,  too,  for  Cicero, 
when,  after  having  exposed  and  defeated  the  horri- 


60  THE    THRER   WISHES. 

ble  conspiracy  of  Catiline,  and  driven  him  from 
Rome,  he  was  borne  by  the  most  honorable  men 
of  the  city  to  his  house,  along  streets  crowded 
with  thousands  of  inhabitants,  all  hailing  him 
*  Father  and  Savior  of  his  country ! '  I  wish  I 
could  be  a  Cicero,  and  you  might  be  a  Julius 
Caesar,  and  an  Alexander  the  Great,  for  me. 

"  But  come,  William,"  said  he,  addressing  his 
other  brother, —  "who  would  you  choose  to  be? 
—  and  what  arguments  can  you  bring  forward  in 
favor  of  your  choice  ?  " 

"  I,"  replied  William,  "  would  choose  to  be 
John  Smeaton." 

"John  Smeaton?"  questioned  Charles;  "and 
pray,  who  in  the  world  was  John  Smeaton  ? " 

"Bless  me!"  said  George,  "not  know  John 
Smeaton!  He  was  a  cobbler,  to  be  sure,  and 
wrote  a  penny  pamphlet,  to  prove  how  superior 
wooden  shoes  are  to  Grecian  sandals !  " 

"Not  he,  indeed!"  interrupted  William,  indig- 
nantly ;  "  he  built  the  Eddystone  Lighthouse  !  " 

"  O  !  yes  —  yes  —  to  be  sure  he  did !  I  won- 
der I  should  forget  it,"  replied  George.  "  He  was 
a  stone-mason,  and  had  the  honor  of  building  a 
wall! — Upon  my  word,  sir,  yours  is  a  noble  am- 
bition! Why,  Smeaton  only  did  what  any  man 
might  do ! " 

"  Not  so,  either,  my  good  Julius  Caesar !  There 
are  not  ten  men  in  England  that  could  have  built 
that  lighthouse  as  well  as  Smeaton  did.  It  will 
stand  while  the  world  stands !  It  is  a  noble  proof 


THE    THREE    WISHES.  61 

of  the  power  and  ingenuity  of  man.  It  defies  the 
almost  omnipotent  ocean  itself,  and  the  other  ele- 
ments can  never  affect  it. 

"  And  now,  George,  consider  Smeaton's  case 
without  your  soldierly  prejudices.  Independently 
of  his  work  being  a  masterpiece  of  human  skill, 
its  importance  will  not  be  lessened  by  time.  Your 
conquests,  most  potent  Caesar !  are  wrested  from 
you  in  your  lifetime,  and  your  successor  will 
hardly  thank  you  for  exhausting  your  country's 
treasure,  and  reducing  its  population,  for  distant 
empire,  which,  as  soon  as  you  have  left  it,  rises 
in  insurrection,  and  almost  needs  reconquering. 
Every  year,  on  the  contrary,  makes  that  work  of 
Smeaton's  additionally  valuable ;  and  as  the  com- 
merce of  the  country  increases,  the  importance  of 
that  wall,  as  you  are  pleased  to  term  it,  increases 
also.  There's  not  a  ship  that  comes  into  that  sea 
but  owes  its  preservation,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
that  lighthouse.  Thousands  of  lives  are  preserved 
by  it ;  and,  when  I  think  of  it  on  a  tempestuous 
night,  as  I  often  do,  shining  out  like  a  star,  when 
every  other  star  is  hidden,  a  blessing  springs  into 
my  heart  on  the  skill  of  that  man,  who,  when  the 
endeavor  seemed  hopeless,  confidently  went  to 
work,  and  succeeded. 

"  But  I'll  tell  you  a  story  now,  about  neither 
Julius  Caesar,  Cicero,  nor  John  Smeaton,  and  yet 
which  is  quite  apropos  :  — 

"  There  was,  once  upon  a  time,  a  little  city  that 
stood  by  the  sea.  It  was  very  famous  —  it  had 
6 


62  THE    THREE    WISHES. 

abundance  of  treasure  —  twenty  thousand  soldiers 
.  to  defend  its  walls  —  and  orators  the  most  eloquent 
in  the  world.  You  may  be  sure  it  could  not  exist 
without  enemies ;  its  wealth  created  many,  and  its 
pride  provoked  more.  Accordingly,  by  some  Ju- 
lius Caesar  of  those  days  it  was  besieged.  Twelve 
thousand  men  encamped  round  its  walls,  which 
extended  on  three  sides,  and  a  powerful  fleet  block- 
aded the  fourth,  which  lay  open  to  the  sea.  The 
inhabitants  of  this  little  city  felt  themselves,  of 
course,  amazingly  insulted  by  such  an  attack,  and 
determined  immediately  to  drive  their  audacious 
enemies  like  chaff  before  the  wind.  They  accord- 
ingly sallied  out,  but,  unfortunately,  were  driven 
back,  and  were  obliged  to  shelter  themselves  be- 
hind their  walls.  Seven  times  this  occurred,  and 
the  enemy  had  now  been  seven  months  encamped 
there  :  it  was  a  thing  not  to  be  borne,  and  a  coun- 
cil was  called  in  the  city. 

"  '  Fight!  fight !'  cried  the  orators;  ' fight  for 
your  homes  —  for  the  graves  of  your  fathers  —  for 
the  temples  of  your  gods ! '  But  in  seven  defeats 
the  soldiers  had  been  reduced  to  ten  thousand,  and 
the  people  were  less  enthusiastic  about  fighting 
than  the  orators  expected.  Just  then  a  poor  man 
came  forward,  and,  stepping  upon  the  rostrum, 
begged  to  propose  three  things  :  —  First,  a  plan  by 
which  the  enemy  might  be  annoyed ;  second,  a 
means  of  supplying  the  city  with  fresh  water,  of 
wikch  it  began  to  be  much  in  need  ;  —  third  —  but 
scarcely  had  he  named  a  third,  when  the  impatient 


THE    THRETE    WISHES.  63 

orators  bade  him  hold  his  peace,  and  the  soldiers 
thrust  him  out  of  the  assembly,  as  a  cowardly 
proser,  who  thought  the  city  could  be  assisted  in 
any  way,  except  by  the  use  of  arms.  The  people, 
seeing  him  so  thrust  forth,  directly  concluded  that 
he  had  proposed  some  dishonorable  measures  — 
perhaps  had  been  convicted  of  a  design  to  betray 
the  city ;  they  therefore  joined  the  outcry  of  the 
soldiers,  and  pursued  him,  with  many  insults,  to  his 
humble  dwelling,  which  they  were  ready  to  burn 
over  his  head. 

"  Now,  this  poor  man,  who  had  never,  in  all  his 
life,  wielded  a  sword,  and  who  had  no  ambition  to 
do  so,  and  who  was  but  an  indifferent  speaker,  was, 
nevertheless,  a  wise  mathematician,  and  had  won- 
derful skill  in  every  mechanical  science  then 
known,  which  he  had  the  ability,  as  is  common 
with  such  men,  to  apply  admirably  to  every  emer- 
gency. But  he  might  as  well  have  had  no  science 
at  all,  for  any  respect  it  won  him  ;  and  though  he 
was  a  little  chagrined  that  his  well-meant  proposi- 
tion had  met  no  better  reception,  he  shut  to  his 
doors,  sate  down  in  his  house,  and  turned  over  his 
schemes  in  his  head,  till  he  was  more  sure  than 
ever  of  their  success.  In  the  mean  time  the  enemy 
brought  up  monstrous  battering-rams,  crow-feet, 
balista^,  and  all  kinds  of  dreadful  engines  for  the 
demolishing  of  the  walls,  setting  fire  to  the  houses, 
and  otherwise  distressing  the  inhabitants.  A  thou- 
sand men  were  despatched  to  cut  down  a  neigh- 
boring forest,  from  the  trees  of  which  they  began 


64  THE    THREE    WISHES. 

to  build  immense  wooden  towers,  whence  they 
could  sling  masses  of  rock  into  the  city.  There 
was  a  deafening  noise  all  day  and  all  night,  without 
the  walls,  of  deadly  preparation.  The  distress  of 
the  besieged  was  now  intolerable,  and  a  truce  was 
eagerly  desired.  A  deputation,  therefore,  of  the 
most  honorable  citizens,  headed  by  the  most  elo- 
quent orators,  and  preceded  by  a  herald  bearing 
a  white  flag,  went  to  the  camp  of  the  enemy.  The 
orators  addressed  them  in  the  most  powerful,  and, 
as  they  thought,  most  soul-touching  words ;  they 
craved  only  a  truce  for  seven  days ;  but  their  words 
fell  like  snow-flakes  upon  a  rock,  —  they  moved  no 
heart  to  pity,  and  the  orators  were  sent  back  to 
their  city  with  many  marks  of  ignominy.  'Go 
back/  said  they,  '  and  our  answer  shall  reach  the 
city  before  you  do.'  Accordingly  every  machine 
was  put  in  motion.  Arrows,  hurled  by  the  balistae, 
fell  into  the  streets  like  hail,  and  ponderous  stones, 
falling  upon  the  buildings,  threatened  destruction 
to  all.  The  rest  of  that  day  the  inhabitants  kept 
within  their  houses,  for  there  was  no  security  in 
the  streets,  nor,  it  must  be  confessed,  much  within 
doors.  The  next  day,  when  the  enemy  a  little 
relaxed  their  efforts,  the  people  ventured  out,  but 
nothing  was  heard  save  lamentations  and  mur- 
murs. 

"  '  We  have  no  bread,'  said  the  people ;  '  we 
are  dying  of  thirst ;  the  little  corn  that  remains, 
and  the  few  skeleton  cattle,  are  reserved  for  the 
soldiers,  while  we  are  perishing  in  the  streets! 


THE    THREE    WISHES.  65 

We  will  open  the  gates  to  the  enemy  rather  than 
see  our  children  die  thus  before  our  eyes  ! ' 

"  Upon  this  the  orators  again  came  forth.  It 
was  now  no  use  mounting  the  rostrum ;  the  people 
were  sullen,  and  would  not  assemble  to  hear  them; 
they  therefore  came  into  the  streets,  and  poured 
forth  their  patriotic  harangues  to  the  murmuring 
thousands  that  stood  doggedly  together.  '  Will 
ye,'  they  exclaimed,  *  give  up  the  city  of  your 
fathers'  glory  to  their  bitterest  enemies  ?  Speak  ! 
—  will  ye,  can  ye  do  it  ? '  And  the  people  held 
up  their  pale  and  famishing  children,  saying, 
'  These  are  our  answer  —  these  shall  speak 
for  us  ! ' 

"  Just  at  this  moment,  the  poor  man,  filled 
with  compassion  for  his  town's-people,  and  suffer- 
ing from  want  equal  to  their  own,  stepped  forward. 
*  Fellow  town's-men,'  said  he,  '  listen  !  There  is 
no  need  for  us  and  our  children  to  die  of  hunger ; 
there  is  no  need  for  us  to  deliver  up  the  city.  Only 
do  as  I  say,  and  we  shall  have  plenty  of  provision, 
and  may  drive  our  enemies  to  the  four  winds.' 

"  'What  would  you  have  us  do?'  asked  the 
people. 

"  '  Why,'  said  he,  *  for  every  engine  that  the 
enemy  brings,  bring  out  one  also :  —  defy  their 
battering-rams  —  disable  their  crow-feet  —  sink  a 
shaft  to  the  river,  and  have  water  in  plenty !  Give 
me  but  seven  days,  three  brave  men,  and  the 
means  I  shall  ask,  and  I  will  pass  through  the 
enemy's  fleet,  visit  the  cities  which  are  friendly 
6* 


66  THE    THREE    WISHES. 

to  us,  and  return  with  provisions  to  stand  out  the 
siege  yet  ten  months  longer.' 

"  '  Try  him  !  try  him  ! '  said  they  ;  '  we  cannot 
be  worse  than  we  are  ! ' 

"  There  was  an  instant  reaction  in  favor  of  the 
poor  man  ;  all  fell  to  work  at  his  bidding ;  — 
every  smith's  shop  rung  with  the  sound  of  ham- 
mers ;  —  carpenters  worked  all  day  and  all  night, 
constructing  machines  which  were  enigmas  to 
them.  There  was  such  a  hum  of  business  for  two 
whole  days,  that  the  enemy  could  not  imagine 
what  was  going  forward.  In  a  short  time  all  was 
ready.  A  huge  machine,  the  height  of  the  walls, 
was  raised,  furnished  with  a  tremendous  pair  of 
iron  shears ;  and  no  sooner  had  the  enormous 
crow-foot  of  the  enemy  reared  itself  to  pull  down 
a  part  of  the  wall,  than  the  shears,  catching  hold 
of  it,  snapped  it  in  two  !  A  roar  of  applause 
echoed  through  the  city,  and  this  first  successful 
effort  assured  them  all.  The  poor  man  at  once 
obtained  the  confidence  of  the  city;  all  the 
enemy's  deadly  machines  he  counteracted ;  he  set 
fire  to  their  immense  wooden  tower  by  balls  of 
inflammable  matter,  which,  he  flung  in  at  night ; 
and  these,  exploding  suddenly,  with  horrible  crack- 
ings and  hissings,  terrified  the  enemy  almost  out 
of  their  senses,  and,  bursting  up  into  volcano-like 
fires,  threatened  to  consume  not  only  the  tower, 
but  the  very  camp  itself.  While  this  was  doing, 
the  poor  man  and  his  three  colleagues  passed 
through  the  fleet  in  the  twilight,  in  a  small  vessel 


THE    THREE    WISHES.  67 

constructed  for  the  purpose,  which,  floating  on  the 
surface  of  the  water,  looked  only  like  a  buoy 
loosened  from  its  hold.  No  sooner  were  they 
outside  the  fleet  than  they  cut  away  one  of  the 
enemy's  large  boats  that  lay  moored  on  the  shore, 
and,  hoisting  full  sail,  by  help  of  a  favorable  wind 
and  good  rowing,  they  arrived,  by  the  end  of  the 
next  day,  at  a  friendly  city.  There  they  soon 
obtained  supplies  —  corn,  salted  meat,  fresh-killed 
cattle,  and  every  thing  of  which  they  stood  in 
need.  A  large  vessel  was  immediately  stored  and 
properly  manned ;  her  hull  was  blackened ;  so 
were  her  masts  and  sails ;  and  by  good  rowing,  she 
reached  the  outside  of  the  harbor  by  the  next 
evening.  There  they  waited  till  it  was  quite  dark, 
and  then,  with  every  oar  muffled,  silently  as  the 
fall  of  night,  yet  swiftly  as  a  bird,  they  passed 
through  the  midst  of  the  fleet  without  being  de- 
tected; and  by  the  next  daybreak  the  vessel  lay 
moored  upon  the  quay  of  the  city. 

"  That  indeed  was  a  morning  of  triumph ! 
Men,  women,  and  children,  thronged  down  in 
thousands.  Food  was  abundant ;  they  all  ate  and 
were  satisfied.  But  the  extent  of  the  poor  man's 
service  was  not  known  when  they  merely  satisfied 
their  hunger  ;  —  he  had  induced  the  friendly  city 
to  send  yet  further  supplies,  with  a  fleet,  which 
should  not  only  attack  the  enemy's  ships,  but  land 
a  body  of  soldiers,  whose  object  would  be  to  fall 
suddenly  upon  the  camp  in  the  rear,  while  the 
soldiers  in  the  city  made  a  sally  on  the  front. 


DO  THE    THREE    WISHES. 

Accordingly,  the  next  day,  the  sea  outside  the 
harbor  was  covered  with  ships.  The  enemy  was 
in  great  consternation.  All  fell  out  as  the  poor 
man  had  foreseen.  After  very  little  fighting,  the 
enemy  had  permission  to  retire,  leaving  as  hostages 
three  of  their  principal  men,  till  an  amount  of 
treasure  was  sent  in,  which  quite  made  up  the 
losses  of  the  siege. 

"  As  you  may  suppose,  after  this,  nobody 
thought  they  could  sufficiently  honor  the  poor 
man ;  his  deeds  were  written  in  the  annals  of  the 
city,  and  ever  after  he  was  universally  called  '  the 
Savior  of  his  country.' 

"And  so  you  see  the  poor  man,  by  his  science 
and  skill,  could  do  more  for  his  city  than  either 
soldiers  or  orators." 

<f  Upon  my  word/'  said  both  the  brothers  in  the 
same  breath,  "  there's  something  in  it." 


BARZILLAI  BUNKER  AND  THE  THIEF. 


THERE  was  one  Barzillai  Bunker,  a  member  of 
the  Society  of  Friends,  residing  near  New  Con- 
cord, in  the  back  settlements  of  New  Jersey.  He 
was  of  wonderfully  staid  demeanor,  and  of  such 
inflexible  features  that  you  might  have  doubted  if 
he  could  smile ;  assuredly,  a  laugh  was  beyond 
the  power  of  his  muscles;  yet  Barzillai  had  a 
spice  of  humor  in  his  composition,  and,  in  a  quiet 
way,  enjoyed  a  joke  as  much  as  any  man. 

Barzillai  was  a  farmer,  and  had  a  small  location 
a  short  distance  from  the  settlement  of  New  Con- 
cord. It  was  in  January,  or,  as  Friends  call  it, 
the  first  month,  in  the  year  1795  ;  and  near  Bar- 
zillai's  abode  lived  one  Jonas  Familyman,  a  lazy, 
good-for-nothing  fellow,  who  had  taken  a  small 
tract  of  land,  which  he  managed  much  as  the  slug- 
gard managed  his  garden  in  the  days  of  good  king 
Solomon.  The  cattle  of  Jonas,  as  may  be  im- 
agined, were  not  over-well  supplied  with  winter 
fodder;  and,  as  he  was  too  improvident  to  have 
wherewithal  to  barter,  and  money  was  out  of  the 
question,  after  the  wolves  had  devoured  his  three 
sheep,  there  seemed  no  other  way  to  him  of  keep- 


70     BARZILLAI  BUNKER  AND  THE  THIEF. 

ing  life  in  the  bodies  of  his  three  cows,  than  by 
making  free  with  the  rich  haystacks  of  his  flour- 
ishing neighbor,  Barzillai  Bunker.  Barzillai,  who 
would  have  missed  a  straw  had  it  been  taken,  soon 
saw  that  other  than  his  own  people  cut  the  rick, 
night  after  night.  But  Barzillai,  if  he  were  quicker 
sighted  than  most  men,  was  also  less  communica- 
tive ;  and  not  one  word  did  he  say  of  his  sus- 
picions. 

All  this  time,  however,  he  was  thinking  to  him- 
self what  he  should  do,  and  accordingly,  having 
made  up  his  mind,  on  sixth-day,  or,  as  it  is  com- 
monly called,  Friday,  night,  he  took  a  dark  lantern 
in  his  hand,  and  seated  himself  under  one  of  his 
ricks.  Here  he  had  not  been  long  stationed  be- 
fore he  perceived  his  neighbor  Jonas  quietly  steal 
up,  seat  himself  in  a  partly-cut  rick,  and  ply  the 
cutting-knife  with  tenfold  the  agility  he  commonly 
used,  on  either  ordinary  or  extraordinary  occasions. 
Barzillai  was  glad  to  see  that  his  neighbor  had 
the  proper  use  of  his  arms,  and  could  make  them 
move  when  it  suited  his  purpose. 

In  a  short  time  Jonas  had  released  a  handsome 
truss  from  the  stack,  and,  heaving  it  upon  his 
shoulders,  quietly,  and  securely,  as  he  thought, 
marched  off  with  his  plunder,  little  thinking,  poor 
man,  that  Barzillai  was  tracking  his  heels  all  the 
time.  A  merry  thought  meanwhile  was  in  Bar- 
zillai's  head,  and  he  advanced  upon  him  until 
they  came  to  a  lonesome  piece  of  unreclaimed 
swamp,  which  Jonas  had  to  pass.  Barzillai  was 


BARZILLAI    BUNKER    AND    THE    THIEF.  71 

concealed  from  sight  by  the  burden  which  poor 
Jonas  carried^and  just  as  they  were  at  the  entrance 
of  the  frozen  swamp,  he  took  the  candle  from  the 
lantern,  and  set  fire  to  the  hay  on  either  side,  and 
then,  extinguishing  his  light,  slipped  aside  to  see 
what  would  come  of  it.  On  Jonas  went  a  few 
paces,  unconscious  of  the  growing  conflagration 
at  his  back,  till  it  suddenly  burst  forth  into  a  wild 
blaze,  and  seemed  to  envelop  him  in  fire.  Down, 
in  a  moment,  went  the  blazing  mass,  and  the  poor 
thief  stood  revealed  by  the  clear  flame  through  the 
darkness.  In  an  agony  of  sudden  horror,  his  hands 
were  extended  wildly  forward ;  his  hair  lifted  his 
fragment  of  a  hat  from  his  head,  and  then,  after  a 
cry,  between  a  scream  and  a  groan,  he  darted 
forward  like  a  maniac,  not  daring  to  look  behind 
him  till  he  was  totally  lost  in  the  blackness  of  the 
night. 

After  witnessing  this  spectacle,  Barzillai  went 
quietly  home  and  to  his  bed.  The  place  was  so 
lonesome  and  inhabitants  so  few,  that  there  was 
no  probability  of  the  circumstance  having  been 
witnessed,  and  he  said  not  a  word  to  any  of  his 
household  of  what  he  had  done  or  of  what  he  had 
discovered. 

The  next  morning,  poor  Jonas,  pale,  and  with 
his  lean,  melancholy  figure  looking  yet  more  woe- 
begone, came  to  the  house  of  Barzillai. 

"  O,"  he  exclaimed,  when  he  found  himself 
alone  with  his  neighbor  in  his  comfortable  parlor, 
"  I  have  been  a  wicked  wretch ;  I  have  been  a 


72     BARZILLAI  BUNKER  AND  THE  THIEF. 

thief — good  Mr.  Bunker,  forgive  me  !  "  and  saying 
that,  he  fell  upon  his  knees  before  him. 

"  What  is  it  thou  hast  done,  friend  1  —  what  is  it 
thou  wouldst  have  of  me  1 "  asked  Barzillai  with 
great  serenity. 

"  O,  worthy,  good  Mr.  Bunker,"  cried  Jonas, 
"  the  vengeance  of  the  Almighty  has  pursued  me 
—  I  have  robbed  your  stacks  time  after  time,  but 
last  night  fire  from  heaven  consumed  my  plunder, 
and  it  is  of  the  Lord's  mercy  that  I  am  spared  !  " 

"  Rise,  my  friend,"  said  Barzillai ;  "  thine  is  a 
strange  confession." 

"  It  is  to  you,"  cried  Jonas,  still  on  his  knees, 
"  that  I  must  make  confession,  and  from  you  I 
must  obtain  pardon,  before  I  can  implore  forgive- 
ness of  Heaven !  I  have  been  a  sinner  all  my 
days,  Mr.  Bunker,  but  this  Providence  of  Mercy 
has  redeemed  me,  and  from  last  night  I  shall  be 
an  altered  man!  " 

All  sense  of  joke  was  gone  from  the  mind  of 
honest  Barzillai,  and  he  too,  like  the  poor  peni- 
tent, was  humbled  by  the  sense  of  the  Almighty's 
influence,,  which  had  thtfs  made  him  an  instrument 
to  reclaim  his  poor,  erring  brother.  Barzillai 
leaned  against  the  rude  mantelpiece  of  his  parlor, 
and  wept ;  and  then,  taking  poor  Jonas  by  the 
hand,  seated  him  beside  him,  freely  forgave  him 
for  what  he  had  done,  and  began  such  a  conversa- 
tion with  him  as  strengthened  all  his  good  resolu- 
tions. 

Jonas  and  Barzillai  wept  together — it  was  like 


&ARZILLAI    BUNKER    AND    THE    THIEF. 


73 


the  repentant  prodigal  coming  back  to  his  father's 
house  ;  and  Barzillai  lived  to  witness  the  rich  and 
abundant  fruits  of  the  poor  man's  penitence,  in 
the  happy  change  which  took  place,  not  only  in 
his  outward  circumstances,  but  in  his  whole  con- 
duct. Of  course  he  kept  secret  his  own  share  in 
the  event  of  the  night :  he  had  neither  wife  nor 
child  to  communicate  it  to,  and  he  learned  to  love 
the  repentant  Jonas  too  well  to  hint  a  word  to  his 
discredit.  The  whole  circumstance  never  would 
have  transpired  had  he  not  accidentally  related  it 
to  an  old  Friend  in  England,  during  one  of  his 
religious  visits  to  that  country. 

Barzillai  has  long  been  dead ;  but  the  descend- 
ants of  Jonas   Familyman    are   a   numerous   and 
flourishing  colony,  in  and   about  New  Concord. 
7 


THE   GRANDMOTHER. 


CHILD.  "  And  when  the  house  was  burnt  down, 
grandmother,  what  did  you  dp  then  ?  " 

GRANDMOTHER.  "  Took  shelter  in  the  barn, 
and  were  right  thankful  that  our  lives  were  spared, 
and  that  a  roof  was  left  to  shelter  us." 

CHILD.  "  But  all  the  furniture  was  burnt,  and 
the  beds  ;  and  grandfather's  leg  was  broken  ?  " 

GRANDMOTHER.  "  But  there  was  plenty  of  good 
clean  straw  in  the  barn  ;  and  one  neighbor  lent  us 
a  mattrass,  and  another  a  blanket ;  and  one  brought 
us  a  chair,  and  another  a  table  ;  many  a  one  spared 
us  a  pan  or  a  kettle,  a  candlestick  or  an  earthen 
pot,  till  we  could  get  together  two  or  three  things 
of  our  own  :  it  was,  besides,  a  special  fine  season ; 
and  even  in  those  misfortunes  we  had  much  to  be 
thankful  for." 

CHILD.  "  But  grandfather  could  not  work ;  and 
there  were  five  children ;  and  there  was  the  doctor 
to  pay,  and  the  house  to  build  up  again." 

GRANDMOTHER.  "  Sure  enough  !  yet  after  the 
first  shock  of  the  misfortune,  we  did  better  than 
one  might  have  thought.  Thank  God  !  at  that 
time  I  was  not  an  ailing  woman;  I  was  able  to 


THE    GRANDMOTHER.  75 

work,  and  every  body  was  ready  to  give  me  a  job. 
Your  grandfather,  through  the  blessing  of  Heaven, 
soon  began  to  mend ;  and,  saving  that  he  never 
had  the  right  use  of  his  leg  again,  was  not  much 
worse  for  his  accident.  I  was  soon  able  to  leave  him 
to  the  care  of  the  three  biggest  children,  and  to  go 
out  washing  and  doing  daily  work  as  usual ;  and 
many  was  the  time  I  brought  home  more  than  a 
day's  wages,  for  every  body  was  kind  to  us :  the 
farmers'  wives  often  sent  us  a  little  bag  of  meal,  or 
a  bit  of  bacon,  or  a  pitcher  of  milk;  and  the 
butcher  sent  us  a  Sunday's  dinner,  for  seven  weeks 
— •  all  the  time  your  grandfather  was,  as  one  may 
say,  helpless." 

CHILD.  "  And  then  the  children  had  the  small- 
pox?" 

GRANDMOTHER.  "  But,  by  the  time  they  were 
all  down,  your  grandfather  was  well  enough,  though 
he  could  not  work,  to  take  care  of  them,  as  they 
lay  on  the  straw  he  had  just  risen  from.  He  was 
a  kind,  handy  man,  and  the  children  all  did  well, 
which  was  a  great  mercy,  seeing  what  a  frightful 
malady  it  was,  and  how  many  died,  among  the 
neighbors'  children,  that  same  season  ;  then,  before 
winter  set  in,  what  with  twenty  pounds  the  squire 
lent  us,  and  by  making  over  a  bit  of  common  allot- 
ment that  had  come  to  us,  and  with  the  help  of 
our  neighbors,  we  got  the  house  raised,  and  the 
roof  on  before  the  hard  weather  set  in." 

CHILD.     "  But  it  was  then,  grandmother,   that 


76  THE    GRANDMOTHER. 

you  got  the  rheumatism  so  bad,  and  that  makes 
you  always  so  lame  ?  " 

GRANDMOTHER.  "  Ay,  to  be  sure  ;  we  got  into 
the  house  before  the  walls  were  well  dry,  and  I 
fell  ill  of  a  rheumatic  fever,  that  kept  me  down 
fourteen  weeks  ;  but  by  that  time  the  children  were 
all  well  again,  and  your  grandfather  could  begin  to 
work." 

CHILD.  "  But  he  could  not  dig  as  he  used 
to  do?" 

GRANDMOTHER.  "  Why,  no ;  he  took  to  weav- 
ing; and  though  at  first,  to  be  sure,  seeing  it  was 
a  new  trade  in  his  fingers,  he  could  not  get  much, 
yet  there's  nothing  a  man  cannot  do  if  he's  bent 
on  doing  it,  nor  a  woman  either ;  so  before  the 
spring  was  over,  he  got  full  journeyman's  wages ; 
and  then,  soon  after,  in  a  year  or  two,  or  so,  as  it 
happened,  poor  old  John  Mudge  died  :  why,  he 
fell  into  his  business  as  pat  as  could  be  ;  and  weav- 
ing was  a  good  trade  then.  There  was  not  a 
farmer's  wife  in  all  the  country  but  had  a  wheel 
going,  may  be  two  or  three,  arid  there  was  a  power 
of  yarn  spun,  both  of  linen  and  woollen,  which  it 
was  soon  thought  nobody  could  weave  into  cloth 
like  your  grandfather.  I'll  warrant  ye  there's  bed 
and  table  linen  of  his  weaving  in  every  decent 
family  twenty  miles  round,  though  it's  twenty  ye: 
since  he  died,  poor  man!  —  ay,  and  his  weavi 
will  be  remembered  through  this  generation." 

CHILD.  "  And  that  was  the  way  grandfather 
came  to  be  a  weaver  ?  " 


iara 

r 


THE    GRANDMOTHER. 


77 


GRANDMOTHER.  "  That  it  was !  and  it  was  a 
good  day's  work  for  him  when  he  first  took  the 
shuttle  between  his  fingers.  We  got  our  debts 
paid  off  before  three  years  were  over,  and  then  we 
were  able  to  lay  something  by  for  our  children,  or, 
may  be,  help  a  poor  neighbor. 

"But  now  finish  the  chapter ;  you  left  off  where 
the  prophet  sat  by  the  brook  Cherith,  and  the  ravens 
fed  him." 

CHILD.     "  I  will,  grandmother." 


THE  TWO  FRIENDS. 


EDWARD  and  William  were  friends  from  boy- 
hood ;  their  ages  were  nearly  the  same,  and  their 
stations  in  life  similar.  Edward  was  an  orphan, 
brought  up  by  his  grandfather,  the  proprietor  of  a 
small  farm.  The  father  of  William  was  a  small 
farmer  also,  a  respectable,  worthy  man,  whose  only 
ambition —  and  such  an  ambition  was  laudable  — 
was  to  leave  to  his  son  the  heritage  of  a  good  name. 

Both  boys  were  destined  by  their  natural  guar- 
dians to  fill  that  station  in  society  to  which  they 
were  born ;  but  it  happened,  as  sometimes  it  will 
happen  in  such  cases,  that  the  boys,  though  trained 
up  in  hard-working  and  pains-taking  families, 
where  the  labor  of  the  hand  was  more  thought  of 
than  the  labor  of  the  head,  were,  nevertheless, 
very  bookishly  inclined ;  and,  as  they  were  both 
of  them  only  children,  their  fancies  were  generally 
indulged,  and  no  one  took  offence  that  their  pence 
and  sixpences  were  hoarded  up  for  the  purchase*^ 
of  books,  instead  of  being  spent  in  gingerbread 
and  marbles.  And  partly  to  gratify  their  o^jgf 
tastes  for  learning,  and  partly  to  fall  in  with  the 
wishes  of  the  village  schoolmaster,  who  took  no 


THE    TWO    FRIENDS.  79 

little  pride  and  pleasure  in  his  docile  and  book-lov- 
ing pupils,  they  attended  the  grammar-school  long 
after  their  village  contemporaries  were  following 
the  plough.  At  fifteen  they  appeared  less  likely 
than  ever  voluntarily  to  lay  down  Homer,  and  Vir- 
gil, and  our  English  divines  and  poets,  for  any 
pleasure  it  was  probable  they  would  ever  find  in 
growing  turnips  or  selling  fat  cattle. 

Perhaps  this  taste  for  letters  might  be  also  stim- 
ulated by  the  grammar-school  having  in  its  gift, 
every  five  years,  a  scholarship  in  one  of  the  uni- 
versities ;  and  which  was  awarded  to  the  youthful 
writer  of  the  best  Greek  and  Latin  theme.  The 
term  was  about  expiring,  and  one  of  the  two 
friends  was  sure  of  the  nomination,  there  being 
no  other  candidate. 

It  was  now  Christmas,  and  the  decision  took 
place  in  March.  The  themes  were  in  progress, 
and  every  thought  of  both  youths  seemed  to  turn 
itself  into  good  Greek  and  Latin.  Just  at  this 
time,  the  father  of  William  suddenly  died ;  and 
what  made  the  trial  doubly  afflicting  was,  that  his 
circumstances  had  become  embarrassed,  and  the 
farm  must,  of  necessity,  be  sold  to  pay  his  debts. 
This  was  a  great  sorrow ;  but  young  as  William 
was,  his  mind  was  strengthened  by  knowledge. 
He  turned  his  philosophy  to  the  best  account ;  he 
faced  his  adverse  circumstances  with  manly  cour- 
age, and,  with  a  clear  head  and  an  upright  heart, 
assisted  in  straightening  his  father's  deranged  af- 
fairs, and  in  providing  that  every  one's  just  claim 


80  THE    TWO    FRIENDS. 

should  be  satisfied.  Yet  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart 
that  he  left  the  comfortable  home  of  former  inde- 
pendence, and  retired  with  his  drooping  mother  to 
a  small  dwelling,  with  the  remnant  of  their  fortune, 
barely  sufficient  to  support  her  above  want. 

When  William  saw  his  mother's  melancholy 
prospects,  he,  for  a  moment,  almost  lamented  that 
he  could  not  turn  his  hand  to  labor ;  and  at  times 
the  gloomy  thought  crossed  his  mind,  that,  perhaps, 
had  he  been  a  humble  ploughman,  he  might  have 
saved  his  father  from  ruin.  But  youth  is  strong, 
and  so  is  intellect ;  and  the  force  of  a  well-stored 
and  active  mind  buoyed  him  up ;  and  he  felt  that 
within  him  which  would  not  let  him  despair,  nor 
even  murmur ;  and  he  knew,  besides,  that  were  the 
scholarship  but  once  won,  the  way  would  then  be 
opened  to  honorable  advancement,  and  even  com- 
petency. Vehemently,  then,  did  he  bestir  himself; 
what  before  was  interesting  he  now  pursued  with 
ardor,  and  what  before  he  had  done  well,  he  now 
did  better ;  for  the  intellect,  like  a  rich  mine, 
abundantly  repays  its  workers. 

Sometimes  the  idea,  almost  in  the  form  of  a 
wish,  crossed  his  mind,  that  Edward,  knowing  his 
altered  circumstances,  might  relinquish  the  field, 
and  thus  secure  to  him  what  had  become  so  doubly 
desirable. 

It  was  now  the  end  of  January,  and,  during  a^ 
hard  frost,  the  two  friends  met  every  evening  to 
recreate  themselves  in  skaiting  —  an  exercise  in 
which  both  excelled.  But  William  seemed  at  thi' 


THE    TWO    FRIENDS.  81 

$| 

time  the  sport  of  misfortune ;  for,  as  he  was  per- 
forming, almost  for  the  twentieth  time,  a  chef 
d'ceuvre  in  the  exercise,  his  foot  caught  a  pebble 
in  the  ice  —  he  was  flung  forward  to  an  immense 
distance  with  terrible  velocity,  and  in  his  fall  broke 
his  leg.  Edward,  unconscious  of  the  extent  of  the 
injury,  with  the  assistance  of  a  cottager,  conveyed 
him  home,  insensible.  The  poor  widow's  cup  of 
sorrow  seemed  now  full  to  the  brim ;  and  William 
vainly  endeavored,  amid  the  agony  of  suffering,  to 
console  her.  Edward  was  like  a  ministering  angel ; 
he  spoke  words  of  comfortable  assurance,  and  sup- 
ported his  friend  in  his  arms  while  he  underwent 
the  painful  operation  of  the  bone  being  reset. 

In  a  short  time,  the  doctor  pronounced  William 
out  of  danger ;  but  he  was  unable  to  use  the  least 
exertion :  even  exercise  of  mind  was  forbidden, 
and  days  and  weeks  were  now  hurrying  February 
into  March. 

"  Alas ! "  said  he,  one  day,  to  his  friend, 
"  there  is  no  hope  of  the  scholarship  for  me ;  but 
why  should  I  regret  it,  when  it  only  secures  it  to 
you  !  And  yet,  for  my  poor  mother's  sake,  I  can- 
not resign  it,  even  to  you,  without  sorrow;  and, 
dear  Edward,"  he  added,  his  whole  countenance 
kindling  up  at  the  idea,  "I  would  have  striven 
against  you  like  a  Dacian  gladiator,  had  it  not 
pleased  Heaven  to  afflict  me  thus !  " 

Edward  was  a  youth  of  few  words,  and  after  a 
pause,  he  replied,  "If  your  theme  is  finished,  I  will 
copy  it  for  you ;  mine  I  finished  last  night." 


82  THE    TWO    FRIENDS. 

"  No,"  said  William,  "  it  is  mostly  in  its  first 
rough  state,  and  wants  yet  a  few  pages  in  conclu- 
sion ;  yet  you  can  see  it  — •  read  it  at  your  leisure ; 
and,  since  it  is  impossible  for  it  to  appear,  if  any 
ideas  or  phrases  appear  to  you  good,  you  are  wel- 
come to  them.  But  I  beg  your  pardon,"  added 
he,  correcting  himself;  "  yours,  I  doubt  not,  is 
already  the  best." 

Edward  did  as  his  friend  desired ;  —  he  took 
from  William's  desk  the  various  sheets  of  the  un- 
finished theme.  He  carried  them  home  with  him, 
and  without  any  intention  of  appropriating  a  sin- 
gle word  to  his  own  benefit,  sat  down  to  its  perusal. 
He  read,  and,  as  he  read,  grew  more  and  more 
amazed  :  —  were  these  thoughts  —  was  this  lan- 
guage indeed  the  composition  of  a  youth  like 
himself? 

He  was  in  the  generous  ardor  of  unsophistica- 
ted youth,  and  his  heart,  too,  was  devoted  to  a  noble 
friendship,  and  the  pure  and  lofty  sentiments  of  his 
friend's  composition  aided  the  natural  kindness  of 
his  heart.  It  was  midnight  when  he  had  finished 
the  half-concluded  sentence  which  ended  the  man- 
uscript ;  and  before  morning  he  had  drawn  up  a 
statement  of  his  friend's  circumstances,  accom- 
panied by  the  rough  copy  of  his  theme,  which  he 
addressed  to  the  heads  of  the  college  :  he  also 
made  up  his  own  papers  —  not  now  from  any  de- 
sire or  expectation  of  obtaining,  the  scholarship, 
but  to  prove,  as  he  said  in  the  letter  with  which  he 


THE   TWO    FRIENDS.  83 

accompanied  them,  how  much  worthier  his  friend 
was  than  himself. 

All  this  he  did  without  being  aware  that  he  was 
performing  an  act  of  singular  virtue;  but  believ- 
ing merely  that  it  was  the  discharge  of  his  duty. 
O,  how  beautiful,  how  heroic  is  the  high-minded 
integrity  of  a  young  and  innocent  spirit ! 

Edward  did  not  even  consult  his  friend  the 
schoolmaster  about  what  he  had  done,  but  took 
the  packet,  the  next  morning,  to  the  nearest  coach 
town,  and  called  on  his  friend  William  on  his  re- 
turn, intending  to  keep  from  him  also  the  knowl- 
edge of  what  he  had  done. 

As  soon  as  he  entered  the  door,  he  saw,  by  the 
countenance  of  the  widow,  that  her  son  was  worse. 
He  had  been  so  much  excited  by  the  conversation 
of  the  evening  before,  that  fever  had  come  on ; 
and  before  the  day  was  over,  he  was  in  a  state  of 
delirium.  Edward  wept  as  he  stood  by  his  bed, 
and  heard  his  unconscious  friend  incoherently 
raving  in  fragments  of  his  theme;  while  the 
widow,  heart-struck  by  this  sudden  change  for 
the  worse,  bowed  herself,  like  the  Hebrew  mother, 
and  refused  to 'be  comforted. 

Many  days  passed  over  before  William  was  again 
calm,  and  then  a  melancholy  languor  followed, 
which,  excepting  that  it  was  unaccompanied  by 
alarming  symptoms,  was  almost  as  distressing  to 
witness.  But  the  doctor  gave  hopes  of  speedy 
renovation  as  the  spring  advanced,  and,  by  the 


84  THE    TWO    FRIENDS. 

help  of  his  good  constitution,  entire,  though  per- 
haps slow,  recovery. 

As  soon  as  Edward  ceased  to  be  immediately 
anxious  about  his  friend,  he  began  to  be  impatient 
for  an  answer  to  his  letter;  and,  in  process  of  time, 
that  answer  arrived.  What  the  nature  of  that  an- 
swer was  any  one  who  had  seen  his  countenance 
might  have  known;  and,  like  a  boy  as  he  was,  he 
leaped  up  in  the  exultation  of  his  heart,  threw  the 
letter  to  his  old  grandfather,  who  sate  by  in  his 
quiet  decrepitude,  thinking  that,  "  for  sure,  the  lad 
was  gone  mad  !  "  and  then,  hardly  waiting  to  hear 
the  overflowings  of  the  old  man's  joy  and  astonish- 
ment, folded  up  the  letter,  and  bounded  off  like  a 
roebuck  to  his  friend's  cottage. 

The  widow,  like  the  grandfather,  thought  at 
first  that  Edward  had  lost  his  wits ;  he  seized  her 
with  an  eagerness  that  almost  overwhelmed  her, 
and  compelled  her  to  leave  her  household  work 
and  sit  down.  He  related  what  he  had  done ;  and 
then,  from  the  open  lettefhvhich  he  held  in  his 
hand,  read  to  her  a  singularly  warm  commendation 
of  William's  theme,  from  the  four  learned  heads 
of  the  college  —  who  accepted  it,  imperfect  as  it 
was  —  nominated  him  to  the  scholarship  —  and 
concluded  with  a  hope,  which,  to  the  mother's 
heart,  sounded  like  a  prophecy,  that  the  young  man 
might  become  a  future  ornament  to  the  university. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  which  was  greater  —  the 
mother's  joy  in  the  praise  and  success  of  her  son, 


THE    TWO   FRIENDS,  85 

or  her  gratitude  to  his  generous  friend,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  sacrificed  his  prospects  to  those  of 
his  rival.  But  while  she  was  pouring  out  her  full- 
hearted  torrent  of  gratitude,  Edward  put  the  letter 
into  her  hand,  and  desired  her  to  read  the  rest, 
while  he  told  the  good  news  to  William.  The 
letter  concluded  with  great  praise  from  the  reverend 
doctors  of  what  they  styled  Edward's  "  generous 
self-sacrifice  ;  "  adding  that,  in  admiration  thereof, 
as  well  as  in  consideration  of  the  merit  of  his  own 
theme,  they  nominated  him  to  a  similar  scholar- 
ship, which  was  also  in  their  gift. 

Little  more  need  be  added :  the  two  friends  took 
possession  of  their  rooms  at  the  commencement 
of  the  next  term ;  and,  following  up  the  course  of 
learning  and  virtue  which  they  had  begun  in  youth, 
were  ornaments  to  human  nature,  as  well  as  to  the 
university. 

8 


FIRE-SIDE  PHILOSOPHY, 


*'  You  are  but  a  little  fellow,  Frank,"  said  the 
philosophical  Philip  to  his  younger  brother,  "  and 
yet  you  live  in  a  better  and  more  commodious 
house  than  a  king  had  formerly.  There  are  ships 
crossing  the  sea  in  every  direction,  to  bring  what 
is  useful  to  you  from  every  part  of  the  earth.  The 
elephant-hunter  of  Ceylon  has  dug  his  traps,  and 
with  difficulty  and  danger  taken  his  prey,  that  you 
may  have  a  cup  and  ball,  and  play  with  ivory 
dominoes.  By  the  shores  of  the  frozen  rivers,  in 
the  uninhabited  regions  of  the  north,  hunters  have 
taken  the  industrious  beaver,  or  the  little  arctic 
fox,  that  you  may  have  a  cap  or  hat  made  of  their 
fur.  The  seal-fisher,  in  the  same  dreary  seas, 
wrapped  up  in  skins,  has  gone  on  his  hazardous 
voyage,  that  you  may  wear  shoes  made  of  fine  and 
elastic  leather. 

"In  China,  they  are  gathering  the  tea-leaf  for 
you.  In  America,  they  are  planting  cotton  for  you. 
In  the  West  India  Islands,  the  poor  negro  is  toiling 
in  the  sun,  to  provide  you  with  sugar,  and  rice, 
and  coffee.  In  Italy,  they  are  feeding  the  silk- 
worms for  you.  In  Saxony,  they  are  shearing  their 


FIRE-SIDE    PHILOSOPHY.  87 

sheep,  to  make  you  a  nice,  warm  jacket.  In  Spainr 
they  have  grown  and  dried  various  kinds  of  fruits, 
that  you  may  enjoy  a  plum-pudding  or  a  mince* 
pie ;  and  merchants,  coming  in  ships  from  the 
same  country,  have  brought  oranges  and  nuts  for 
your  eating.  And  at  this  very  time,  travellers  and 
voyagers  are  exploring  new  and  wonderful  regions, 
that  you  may  know  all  respecting  them,  and  benefit 
by  their  productions,  without  you,  yourself,  stirring 
one  mile  from  home. 

"  In  England,  steam-engines  are  spinning  and 
weaving,  and  grinding  and  thumping,  and  tearing 
and  driving  for  you ;  some  stationary,  like  old- 
world  giants  —  and  others  whirling  along  rail- 
roads by  twenties  and  thirties  together,  like  pon- 
derous dragons,  each  carriage  like  a  vertebra  of 
its  enormous  spine ;  others  are  pumping  in  mines, 
drawing  up  with  their  monstrous  arms  all  metals 
and  minerals  that  can  be  useful  to  you  —  coal  to 
warm  you  —  and  iron,  and  tin,  and  lead,  and  salt. 
Fleets  are  stationed  round  our  happy  country  to 
protect  and  defend  it,  and  that  you  may  sleep  and 
wake  without  fear  of  invasion. 

"  And,  little  boy  as  you  are,  no  one  could  injure 
you,  nor  steal  you  from  your  parents,  without 
lawyers,  judges,  nay,  even  the  king  himself,  were  it 
necessary,  interfering  in  your  behalf.  Besides  all 
this,  at  this  very  moment,  men  of  learning  and 
talent  are  employed  in  writing  you  delightful  and 
instructive  books;  and  printers,  engravers,  and 
book-binders,  are  all  working  for  you,  and  schem- 


88  FIRE-SIDE    PHILOSOPHY. 

ing  how  they  can  best  please  and  surprise  you.  It 
is  a  famous  thing  to  live  in  England  —  grand  Old 
England,  in,  these  days  ! " 

"  Well,  master  Philip,"  said  his  sister,  who  had 
been  listening  to  his  harangue,  "  may  I  inquire 
where  you  gained  all  this  learning  ?  " 

"  Not  out  of  my  own  head,  I  assure  you,  Katy; 
but  I  heard  papa  read  some  remarks,  a  great  deal 
like  what  I  have  said,  from  the  introduction  to  Dr. 
Arnott's  clever  book,  and  because  I  was  much 
pleased  with  them,  I  wanted  to  make  Frank  feel 
the  same  pleasure." 


THE  TWO  BOYS  OF  FLORENCE. 

A    DRAMA. 

IN  the  fourteenth  century,  Florence  was  gov- 
erned in  a  singular  manner ;  not  by  a  king,  nor  a 
seriate,  but  by  twelve  men,  chosen  from  the  trades 
and  professions  of  the  city  —  the  lawyers,  the 
apothecaries,  the  druggists,  the  linen-drapers,  &,c., 
excluding  the  lower  class  of  tradesmen,  as  shoe- 
makers, wool-combers,  carpenters,  and  such  like, 
from  any  participation  in  the  government.  This, 
of  course,  led  to  continual  contention  between  the 
people  and  the  privileged  parts  of  the  community, 
while,  at  the  same  time,  both  these  lived  in  per- 
petual hostility  with  the  nobles,  who,  notwithstand- 
ing their  exclusion  from  any  share  in  the  gov- 
ernment, contrived  to  tyrannize  over  all.  Besides 
these  causes  of  discontent,  the  whole  of  Italy  was, 
at  that  time,  divided  into  two  great  political  parties 
called  Guelphs  and  Ghibelines  —  something  like 
our  Whigs  and  Tories.  All  these  causes  concur- 
ring, occasioned  more  animosity,  family  feuds,  and 
bloodshed,  than  can  be  conceived,  except  by  those 
who  know  any  thing  of  the  histories  of  those  times. 
The  character  of  Michel  Lando,  the  wool- 
8* 


90  THE    TWO    BOYS    OF    FLORENCE. 

comber,  is  known  to  the  readers  of  Florentine 
history.  Though  a  conspirator,  he  was  a  virtu- 
ous man,  and  distinguished  himself  in  the  insur- 
rection which  makes  part  of  the  subject  of  the 
following  little  drama,  by  his  wisdom  and  modera- 
tion. 

THE  TWO  BOYS  OF  FLORENCE. 

CHARACTERS. 

MATTEO  LANDO,  the  son  of  Michel  Lando. 
LORENZO  SCALA,  the  son  of  the  Marquis  Scala. 
MICHEL  LANDO,  the  wool-comber,  —  the  head  of  the 

conspirators. 

The  MARQUIS  SCALA,  a  proud  Florentine  noble. 
PAOLO,  a  Genoese  carpenter,  uncle  to  Matteo. 
FATHER  BATISTA,  tutor  of  Lorenzo. 

Boys,  Conspirators,  Soldiers,  fyc. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  Morning.  An  open  space  before  the 
Scala  Palace.  Matteo  and  three  Boys  throw- 
ing with  white  stones  for  chestnuts. 

IST  BOY.     I  won't  make  another  throw ! 
MATTEO.     Come,  don't  be  angry,  —  you  shall 
have  two  throws  for  my  one. 

IST  BOY,  (throwing  again.)    There  again!    It's 


THE    TWO   BOYS   OF    FLORENCE.  91 

all    cheatery !      You  got   seventeen,    and   I   only 
three  !  —  I  say  you're  a  cheat ! 

%D  BOY.     It's  my  turn  now  !  and  I've  lost ! 

3o  BOY.  And  so  did  I !  I  say  he  is  a  cheat 
and  a  Ghibeline  ! 

MATTEO.  I'm  neither  !  I  played  fair.  If  you 
throw  badly,  I  can't  help  it! 

3o  BOY.     You're  a  Ghibeline ! 

2o  BOY.     So  he  is !  —  Down  with  him  ! 

(They  fall  upon  him.) 

STRANGE  BOY.     Heyday,  what's  up  now  ? 

ALL.     Only  beating  a  Ghibeline. 

STRANGE  BOY.     That's  right,  down  with  him! 

LORENZO  SCALA,  (opening  a  gate  in  the  wall.) 
How  now,  fellows  !  Four  against  one  !  Shame 
on  ye  for  a  cowardly  crew ! 

THE  FOUR.  Down  with  the  Scala ;  he's  a  Ghi- 
beline too ! 

LORENZO,  (throwing  off  his  cloak.)  Touch  me 
if  you  dare  !  ( To  Matteo.)  Stand  by  me,  boy, 
and  I'll  stand  by  you  ! 

(Theyjiglit,  and  the  four  boys  are  driven  off.) 

And    now,   boy,    who    are   you,    and   what  ?  — 

Guelph  or  Ghibeline  ?  —  If  Ghibeline,  stand  to  it ! 

(He  puts  himself  in  an  attitude  of  defence.) 

MATTEO.  Nay,  noble  sir,  we'll  never  fight ! 
—  I'm  a  Guelph,  and  the  son  of  a  Guelph  ;  —  my 
father  is  Michel  Lando,  the  wool-comber,  as  brave 
and  as  honest  a  man  as  any  in  Florence.  And 
now,  gracious  sir,  accept  my  humble  thanks ;  — 
you  are  a  noble  young  gentleman ! 


92  THE    TWO    BOYS    OF    FLORENCE* 

FATHER  BATISTA.       My  lord  !    my  lord !  what 

in  the  name  of  the  seven  angels  are  you  doing? 

(He  pulls  Mm  in,  and  shuts  the  gate  violently.) 

MATTEO.  He  has  left  his  cloak.  Shall  I 
knock,  and  give  it  to  the  porter  ?  —  No,  if  that 
grim  monk  sees  me,  he  will  suspect  me  of  treason, 
and  will  say  I  have  polluted  the  cloak  by  touching 
it.  I  will  find  some  means  of  delivering  it  to  that 
noble  young  lord  myself,  for  I  have  not  half 
thanked  him.  He  is  a  fine  youth  —  what  an  eye  ! 
—  what  a  manly  carriage  !  —  what  a  brave,  gen- 
erous spirit !  I  will  give  him  the  cloak  myself, 
and  carry  with  it  some  little  token  of  my  gratitude. 
Let  me  see  —  what  can  I  give  him  1  —  O,  I 
know  — I  don't  believe  he  ever  saw  such  a  thing. 
But  stay  —  before  I  go  I  must  roll  up  this  fine 
purple  cloak,  and  keep  it  out  of  sight,  or  I  shall 
have  a  mob  at  my  heels,  and  be  beaten  for  a  Ghi- 
beline. 

(He  rolls  up  the  cloak,  and  runs  off.) 

SCENE  II.     A  Carpenter's  shop.     PAOLO  at  work. 

PAOLO,  (wiping  his  forehead  with  his  apron.) 
What  a  stupid  city  is  this  Florence  1  A  man  may 
well  be  thirsty  —  not  a  drop  of  water  but  what 
is  in  that  little  river  Arno !  Why,  the  air's  as 
hot  as  fire  —  no  sea-breeze  like  that  at  Genoa! 
But  here  comes  my  nephew.  Well,  Matteo,  what 
do  you  want  ? 


THE   TWO   BOYS    OF   FLORENCE,  9£ 

MATTEO,  (with  a  little  ship  in  his  hand.)  I 
want  you  to  help  me  with  this  ship ;  will  you, 
uncle?  I  began  it  six  months  ago,  when  I  was 
with  you  at  Genoa. 

PAOLO.  Finish  it,  and  welcome,  yourself, — • 
but  you  will  get  no  help  from  me  to-day,  I  promise 
you! 

MATTEO.  Why  not,  dear  uncle  ?  —  are  you 
busy  ? 

PAOLO.  Why,  no,  not  busy  exactly,  —  but  Fia 
killed  with  heat,  —  I  don't  like  Florence. 

MATTEO.  Well,  but,  uncle,  don't  let  that  vex 
you.  Look  at  this  little  ship,  good  uncle ;  it  only 
wants  masts,  —  just  look  at  it,  to  please  me. 

PAOLO.  Why,  now,  what  a  gimcracky  concern 
this  is!  Your  rudder  won't  work;  and  what  a 
prow  I  Did  you  ever  see  a  prow  like  this  ?  It 
should  be  small,  you  know,  to  cut  the  water  like 
an  arrow !  Ay,  they've  merry  times  at  Genoa, 
I  warrant,  this  fine  summer  weather!  I  shall 
never  like  Florence,  that's  certain  —  more  fool  I 
for  leaving  Genoa!  Now  take  your  ship,  and  off 
with  you  ! 

MATTEO.  Well,  but,  uncle,  will  you  lend  me 
your  tools  then  1  and  I'll  finish  it.  I  did  it  all 
myself. 

PAOLO.  And  pretty  work  you've  made  of  it!' 
But  if  I  must  do  it,  why  I  must  —  and  I  may  as 
well  do  it  at  first  as  at  last.  But  why  do  you  want 
it  just  now  ? 


i)4  THE    TWO    BOYS    OF    FLORENCE, 

MATTEO.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  uncle,  I'm 
going  to  give  it  away. 

PAOLO.  Give  it  away  !  and  that's  the  value  you 
set  on  my  work,  is  it !  And  pray,  to  whom  are 
you  going  to  give  it  ? 

MATTEO.  Why  —  it's  to  nobody  in  particular 
—  to  nobody  that  you  know,  dear  uncle  —  only  to 
the  Marquis  Scala's  son. 

PAOLO.  Only  to  the  Marquis  Scala's  son  !  No, 
no,  sir,  if  you  keep  company  with  nobles,  it's 
below  you  to  ask  favors  of  a  poor  carpenter.  Take 
your  ship ;  I'm  not  going  to  spend  my  time  in 
making  presents  for  people  who  will  trample  on 
me  in  return ! 

MATTEO.  Nay,  uncle,  nay, — you're  altogether 
mistaken  —  Lorenzo  Scala  will  trample  on  no  man ! 
You  see  this  black  eye  —  you  see  this  gash  on  my 
arm  too — they  were  given  me  by  my  equals,  be- 
cause they  said  I  was  a  Ghibeline,  and  young 
Scala  stepped  in  —  threw  off  his  cloak  —  rescued 
me  —  fought  himself  against  four,  and  drove 
them  off.  They  would  have  killed  me,  uncle,  if 
he  hadn't  come ! 

PAOLO.  Indeed  !  That's  more  than  I  should 
have  looked  for,  and  I'll  take  it  as  a  sign  that  the 
generation  is  mending.  And  so  you  want  to  repay 
him  —  well,  that's  only  right  —  doing  as  you 
would  be  done  by,  as  Father  Nicolo  says.  Now 
for  the  ship ;  and  let's  see  what  we  can  make  of  it. 
O,  O,  I  see  it'll  do;  a  little  trimming  here,  and 


THE    TWO   BOYS   OF   FLORENCE.  95 

trimming  there,  and  I'll  make  it  as  pretty  a  thing 
as  ever  left  Genoa. 

MATTEO,  Thank  you,  dear  uncle,  thank  you 
a  thousand  times  —  but  let  me  say  one  thing  ;  I 
don't  think  I  can  repay  him  by  giving  him  this 
ship.  I  only  want  to  show  that  a  poor  boy  can  be 
grateful. 

PAOLO.  Well,  well,  that's  the  same  thing,  isn't 
it  ?  But  come,  my  tools  are  at  home  —  so  don't 
stand  prating  there. 

(They  go  out.) 

SCENE  III.  Afternoon.  The  garden  of  the 
Scala  Palace.  MATTEO  and  LORENZO  before 
the  basin  of  a  fountain,  the  cloak  lying  beside 
them. 

LORENZO,  (holding  the  ship  in  his  hand.)  And 
so  you  have  brought  me  this  beautiful  ship  !  and 
you  say  you  mean  to  give  it  me  —  you  are  very 
good  indeed !  But  how  did  you  get  in  ?  was  the 
door  in  the  wall  open  ? 

MATTEO.  No  —  but  I  am  known  to  the  por- 
ter ;  he  often  comes  to  my  father's. 

LORENZO.  And  you  say  this  is  like  a  real  ship ; 
you  know  I  have  never  been  to  Genoa,  nor  Na- 
ples. And  these  are  the  masts,  and  these  the 
sails  ? 

MATTEO.  Yes,  noble  sir;  and  I  call  it  the 
Scala,  in  honor  of  you.  Ah,  if  you  had  but  seen, 
as  I  have,  at  Genoa,  a  whole  fleet  of  their  grand 


96  THE    TWO    BOYS   OP   FLORENCE. 

merchant-ships  going  out,  and  seen  thousands  of 
people  out  on  the  quay,  and  heard  them  shout  till 
the  very  sky  rang  again,  you  would  never  forget 
it  as  long  as  you  lived  ! 

LORENZO.     Have  you  another  ship  like  this  ? 

MATTEO,     No.     Why  ? 

LORENZO.  Because  you  must  be  sorry  to  part 
with  it ;  I'm  sure  I  should.  I  wish  I  could  give 
you  something.  I'll  give  you  this  sword. 

MATTEO.  No,  no,  thank  you !  You  did  enough 
for  me  this  morning.  No,  I'll  not  take  your 
sword  ;  you  know  I  could  not  wear  it  —  plebeians 
cannot  wear  swords.  But  I  hope  you'll  live  to  be 
a  man,  and  then  you'll  treat  the  poor  kindly;  and 
when  you  see  the  poor  oppressed,  help  them  as 
you  helped  me  this  morning  ! 

LORENZO.  By  the  faith  of  a  nobleman,  I  will ! 
But  why  do  you  smile  1 

MATTEO.  Because  I  know,  there  are  many 
who  would  say  that  was  a  bad  pledge, 

LORENZO.  Do  people  doubt  that  I  Nay,  boy, 
I  tell  you  solemnly,  that  if  I  make  a  promise, 
Til  die  sooner  than  break  it!  But  will  this  ship 
sail? 

MATTEO.  To  be  sure  it  will !  Try  it  in  this 
b^  3in ;  you  will  find  it  as  good  a  sailer  as  ever 
left  Genoa.  I'll  push  it  where  the  water  is 
roughest. 

LORENZO.  No,  let  me !  Huzza,  little  ship ! 
Huzza!  Success  to  the  Scala!  Is  that  the  way 
they  shouted  ? 


THE    TWO    BOYS    OF    FLORENCE.  97 

MATTEO.  Yes,  but  a  thousand  times  louder; 
and  waved  their  caps,  and  shouted  thus. 

(He  shouts ;   Lorenzo  joins  Mm.) 

THE  MARQUIS  SCALA,  (suddenly  coming  for- 
ward.) And  pray  what  riot  is  this?  Lorenzo, 
what  low  companion  have  you  chosen?  Have 
you  so  far  forgotten  the  dignity  of  our  house  as  to 
bring  a  fellow  like  this  into  our  palace  garden  ? 

LORENZO.  Father,  he's  a  noble-hearted  boy, 
the  son  of  an  honest  man,  and  a  true  Guelph, 
father  ! 

THE  MARQUIS,  (to  Matteo.)  How  dared  you, 
audacious  villain,  enter  this  place  ?  The  very  air 
is  contaminated  with  your  breath  !  Out  with  you  ! 

LORENZO.  Be  gentle  with  him,  father;  he  is  a 
generous  youth ;  he  gave  me  this  ship,  father. 

THE  MARQUIS.  And  have  you,  mean-spirited 
boy,  taken  a  present  at  the  hand  of  a  plebeian  ? 
Out  of  my  sight,  ignoble  as  you  are ! 

(He  offers  to  strike  him.) 

MATTEO.     My  lord,  you  shall  not  strike  him ! 

THE  MARQUIS.  Base  son  of  the  earth,  dare 
you  defy  me  ?  (He  thrusts  him  out  of  the  gate, 
and  throws  the  ship  after  him.)  And  now,  craven- 
spirited  boy,  begone,  lest  I  forget  that  you  are  my 
son ! 

(Lorenzo  goes  hastily;  his  father  slowly  follows.) 
9 


THE    TWO    BOYS    OF    FLORENCE. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.  A  wool-comber's  shop.  MICHEL  LANDO, 
a  stout-built,  well-looking  man,  at  work;  MAT- 
TEO  at  work  also ;  three  of  the  CONSPIRATORS 
come  in. 

IST  CONSPIRATOR.  Good  morrow,  friend  !  At 
work,  as  usual. 

MICHEL  LANDO.  To  be  sure ;  sitting  still  wins 
no  man's  bread.  But  I  think  I  know  your  errand. 

2o  CONSPIRATOR.  If  you  do  not,  you  soon 
will.  We  are  come  to  tell  you,  Lando,  that  we 
don't  choose  to  stir  unless  you'll  take  the  manage- 
ment of  affairs,  as  usual. 

MICHEL  LANDO.  I  say  now,  what  I  said  then. 
Be  determined  as  you  will,  but  be  moderate.  Let 
not  plunder  and  revenge  be  the  only  end  for  which 
we  strive.  Our  rights,  as  citizens  and  as  men,  are 
what  we  contend  for;  let  our  friends  remember 
this,  and  I  shall  not  again  desert  you. 

2o  CONSPIRATOR.  But,  Lando,  we  have  agreed 
to  obey  you. 

MICHEL  LANDO.  Let  the  nobles  enjoy  their 
palaces  and  their  treasures  —  let  the  present  privi- 
leged classes  partake  in  the  government  of  the 
city,  and  only  such  be  incapable  of  holding  offices 
in  it  who  have  been,  or  shall  be,  guilty  of  crime 
Let  us  contend  like  men  for  our  rights  —  but  le* 


THE    TWO    BOYS    OF    FLORENCE.  99 

us  be  temperate.  If  you  will  swear  to  these  re- 
strictions, I  will  go  with  you  ;  and,  hand  and  heart, 
there  shall  be  no  truer  man  than  Michel  Lando ! 

SD  CONSPIRATOR.  We  have  agreed  to  obey  you 
in  all  things.  But  you  must  go  with  us,  Michel : 
we  can  do  nothing  without  you. 

MICHEL  LANDO.  Let  me  finish  this  wool,  and 
then  I  will  attend  you.  In  the  mean  time,  what 
has  been  done  since  I  left? 

IST  CONSPIRATOR.  Ay,  Michel,  you  bore  with 
them  lilce  a  saint.  You  heard  what  I  said ;  says  I, 
Of  all  the  men  — 

MICHEL  LANDO.  Yes,  good  friend,  I  heard  it;, 
but  never  mind  it  now.  The  soldiers  had  joined 
us  to  a  man  —  so  had  the  households  of  the  nobles 
—  the  question  was,  whether  the  shoe-makers  and 
leather-dressers  would  join  us,  or 'make  a  party  of 
their  own. 

2o  CONSPIRATOR.  They  have  sworn  to  join 
us,  if  you  take  the  lead,  as  usual,  and  then  all  will 
be  ready.  We've  chains  prepared  for  the  end  of 
every  street;  arms  for  every  man;  torches  ready 
for  lighting ;  many  hundred  tons  of  stones  to  de- 
fend ourselves  with,  in  case  the  nobles  are  rash 
enough  to  face  us.  The  palaces  of  the  Malatesti, 
the  Ubaldi,  and  the  Scala,  are  to  be  set  fire  to  — 
all  is  ready  —  you  know  you  consented  to  that. 

MICHEL  LANDO.  Yes,  because  some  sacrifice 
of  this  kind  is  necessary  to  terrify  the  proud  nobles 
into  reason ;  and  because  from  the  tyranny  of 
these  houses  the  people  have  suffered  most.  You 


100       THE  TWO  BOYS  OF  FLORENCE. 

understand  me  —  no  man  but  myself  must  give 
orders  to-night  —  and  my  orders  shall  be  implicit- 
ly obeyed. 

ALL.  They  shall,  Michel.  We  understand 
you.  But  come,  your  work  is  finished,  and  our 
friends  will  be  impatient. 

MICHEL  LANDO.     I  am  ready. 

(They  all  go  out.) 

MATTEO.  They  never  thought  about  me,  — 
well,  I  am  possessed  of  their  secret,  but  I  will  not 
betray  it.  I  will,  however,  save  the  life  of  Lo- 
renzo. This  will  be  a  terrible  night !  And  poor 
Lorenzo  is  doomed  to  perish  for  the  tyranny  of  his 
proud  father  —  but  he  shall  not  —  I  will  save  him ! 
They  said  the  households  of  the  nobles  had  joined 
them — ha!  —  this  accounts  for  the  porter's  inti- 
macy with  my  father ;  —  yes,  yes,  I  see  it  all  now 
—  but  I  will  save  Lorenzo !  (He  goes  out.) 

SCENE  II.  Tivilight.  MATTEO,  with  great  pre- 
caution and  anxiety,  looking  out  from  a  pavilion 
in  the  garden  of  the  Scala  Palace. 

MATTEO.  I  wish  he  would  come !  I  feel  as  if 
I  were  just  by  the  jaws  of  a  lion  !  But  hush,  — 
here  he  is.  (Enter  Lorenzo.) 

LORENZO.  Why  are  you  here?  and  why  have 
you  sent  for  me  ?  O  do  not -stay ;  if  my  father  find 
you,  he  will  kill  you.  And  Father  Batista  is  as 
bad  !  But  what  is  it  you  want  with  me? 

MATTEO.     There  is  no   time  for   explanation ; 


THE    TWO°BOYS    OF    FLORENCE.  '1(}JL 

you  must  come  with  me  :  —  if  you  would  be  living 
by  this  time  to-morrow,  you  must  come  with  me. 
Put  on  this  cloak  of  mine,  that  you  may  not  be 
known  —  nay,  are  you  afraid  of  touching  it?  —  it 
will  not  pollute  you  ! 

LORENZO.     No,  I  am  not  afraid  of  touching  it 

—  but  why  must  I  go  with  you,  and  whither  ? 
MATTEO.     The   whole   city  is   in    insurrection 

against  the  nobles  —  your  palace  will  be  burnt  this 
night,  and  you  must  perish  unless  you  fly  with  me ! 
I  can  save  your  life ! 

LORENZO.  What,  and  let  my  father  perish ! 
No,  I  cannot  —  I  cannot  leave  my  father;  if  you 
can  save  him  too,  your  offer  will  be  noble ;  —  but 
I  cannot  leave  my  father ! 

MATTEO.     But  if  I  save  him,  he  must  see  me 

—  and  you  said  he  would   kill  me  if  he  saw  me. 
Besides  —  and  yet,  noble  Lorenzo,  for  your  sake, 
I  will  save  him. 

LORENZO.     Now,  that's  a  fine  fellow  ! 

MATTEO.  Run  hastily  and  prepare  your  father. 
Tell  him  I,  the  poor  boy  whom  he  thrust  forth  this 
morning,  must  see  him. 

LORENZO.  I  will.  If  he  be  calm,  I  will  bring 
you  before  him  —  if  not,  I  will  even  take  my 
chance  with  him  —  he  is  my  father!  And  now, 
the  good  saints  be  with  you,  boy,  if  we  never  meet 
again.  (Lorenzo  goes  out.) 

9* 


J03  TIJE    TWO    BOYS    OF    FLORENCE. 


' 


SCENE  III.  The  Saloon  of  the  Palace.  The 
MARQUIS  seated  in  a  large  chair.  LORENZO 
leads  in  MATTEO. 

THE  MARQUIS,  (after  eyeing  Matteo  very  stern- 
ly.) Arid  you  bring  report  of  an  insurrection  in 
the  city !  Our  lives,  it  seems,  are  threatened  — 
our  palaces  to  be  burnt  —  we  are  to  die  like  slaves, 
and  all  this  without  being  able  to  make  one  effort 
to  save  ourselves !  Do  not  think  to  impose  upon 
us  by  your  idle  threats  and  false  alarms  —  you 
shall  not  go  unpunished ! 

MATTEO.  Do  not  talk  of  idle  threats,  my  lord 
—  for  these  threats  of  yours  are  such  —  pardon 
me  that  I  speak  plain  —  your  life,  and  the  life  of 
many  another  noble  of  Florence,  is  even  now  in 
danger ! 

THE  MARQUIS.  Young  man,  you  seem  to  have 
forgotten  that  nobles  can  command  both  servants 
and  soldiers ! 

MATTEO.  My  lord,  it  is  impossible  now ;  both 
your  soldiers  and  servants  have  joined  the  conspir- 
acy against  you.  There  is  no  one  in  this  palace 
but  looks  forward  impatiently  to  the  burning  and 
plundering  of  it  to-night  —  there  is  no  one  who 
would  not  willingly  take  my  life,  because  I  have 
sought  to  save  yours !  You  are  encompassed  on 
all  sides — fagots,  my  lord,  lie  under  your  feet 


THE  TWO  BOYS  OF  FLORENCE.       103 

ready  to  be  kindled  —  the  tapestry  conceals  com- 
bustibles. 

(He  lifts  the  tapestry  and  shows  fagots  and 
straw.) 

THE  MARQUIS.  Gracious  heavens !  we  are 
betrayed ! 

MATTEO.  Trust  in  me,  my  lord,  and  you  shall 
be  safe ! 

THE  MARQUIS.  What  can  have  induced  you  to 
volunteer  so  much  in  our  service? 

MATTEO.  Gratitude,  my  lord,  to  this  young 
nobleman,  your  son.  He  rescued  me  from  danger  : 
I  owe  him  more  than  my  service  can  pay  —  he  was 
the  first  nobleman  that  I  have  seen  do  a  noble 
action. 

THE  MARQUIS.  Young  man,  your  services  shall 
be  rewarded. 

LORENZO.  Dear  father,  let  us  fly  !  Let  us  con- 
fide in  this  generous  youth  —  why  do  you  hesi- 
tate? 

MATTEO.  In  two  hours  the  attempt  will  be 
vain !  I  will  go  and  provide  means  for  securing 
your  flight.  Pack  up,  as  speedily  and  secretly  as 
possible,  your  most  portable  treasure :  but  what- 
ever is  done,  let  it  be  done  unknown  to  your  ser- 
vants. If  they  suspect  your  flight,  all  is  lost.  I 
will  return  in  half  an  hour ;  but  let  me  find  you  in 
the  pavilion.  (He  goes.) 


104       THE  TWO  BOYS  OF  FLORENCE. 


SCENE  IV.  Two  hours  before  midnight.  The 
Pavilion.  Enter  MATTEO  with  a  large  bundle, 
a  basket,  and  a  dark  lantern ;  the  MARQUIS  and 
LORENZO,  with  two  caskets,  enter  directly  after- 
wards. 

MATTEO,  (opening  the  bundle.}  These  clothes 
you  must  put  on.  Pardon  them,  my  lord,  they  are 
very  humble,  but  in  them  your  life  will  be  secure. 
This  c^oaij  you  must  throw  over  all,  and  this  hood 
too,  if  you  please.  You  must  personate  my  aunt, 
who  lives  out  of  Florence,  and  regularly  brings  to 
the  city  eggs  and  poultry ;  she  has  come  in  this 
day :  —  and  you,  being  taken  for  Michel  Lando's 
sister,  will  be  safe.  She  has  a  son  too,  about  the 
age  of  yours; — the  night  is  dark,  my  lord,  and 
we  shall  not  be  detected.  Your  treasure  I  will  put 
in  this  basket,  and  carry  for  you. 

THE  MARQUIS.  And  must  I,  indeed,  submit  to 
this  mummery  ? 

MATTEO.  Call  it  not  mummery,  my  lord;  — 
your  life,  and  the  life  of  your  son,  depend  upon  it. 
Trust  to  me,  noble  sir,  and  you  shall  be  safe. 

( They  put  on  the  disguises.  Matteo  darkens 
the  lantern,  takes  up  the  basket,  and  goes  out  — 
they  follow.) 

MATTEO.  This  way,  my  lord ;  we  musf;4 escape 
by  the  garden  wall,  or  your  servants  will  discover 
us.  ( They  all  go  out.) 


THE  TWO  BOYS  OF  FLORENCE.       105 


SCENE  V.  Street.  Crowds  of  men  collected  to- 
gether. A  chain  drawn  across  the  street,  guarded 
by  soldiers.  Enter  MATTEO,  the  MARQUIS,  and 
LORENZO. 

SOLDIER.  Who  comes  here  1  Ay,  a  woman  at 
this  time  of  night !  Good  lady,  haven't  you  heard 
that  no  woman  is  to  stir  out  on  the  penalty  of 
Lando's  displeasure? 

MAN,  (rushing  forward.)  'Tis  a  man  in  dis- 
guise ! 

SECOND  MAN.  Stop  him !  Pull  off  madam's 
hood! 

MATTEO.     Townsmen !  —  Do  you  know  me  ? 

MAN.     Ay,  sure.     Michel  Lando's  son. 

MATTEO.     Well,  then,  let  us  pass! 

THIRD  MAN.  It  is  Lando's  sister  —  I  saw  her 
come  in  this  morning. 

MATTEO.     Let  us  pass,  good  people. 

( The  Soldiers  undo  the  chain.) 

MAN.  The  order  about  the  women  was  Lando's 
own.  One  would  think  he  should  not  have  been 
the  first  to  break  it ! 

( The  midnight  bell  tolls.  A  sound  like  thunder 
bursts  forth,  and  the  darkness  becomes  suddenly 
illuminated.  The  crowd  thickens.) 

MAN.  Hurrah !  hurrah !  Now  dawns  a  new 
day  for  Florence!  Down  with  the  Malatesti! 
down  with  the  Scala  ! 


106       THE  TWO  BOYS  OF  FLORENCE. 

THE  MARQUIS.  It,  indeed,  was  too  true !  un- 
fortunate Florence ! 

MAN.  What  voice  was  that  ?  Who  bewails 
Florence  ? 

MATTEO.     Silence,  my  lord,  or  we  are  undone ! 

ANOTHER  MAN.  That's  the  woman !  —  stop 
her  —  she  bewails  Florence ! 

ANOTHER  MAN.  'Tis  a  noble  in  disguise  — 
stop  him !  —  bring  hither  a  torch  ! 

( The  people  gather  about  the  Marquis,  and  lay 
hands  upon  him.) 

MATTEO.  Pray  you,  good  people,  peace !  —  I 
am  Michel  Lando's  son  —  let  us  pass,  I  beseech 
you !  Can  you  not  trust  the  son  of  Michel  Lando? 

MAN.  Michel  Lando's  son  shall  go  free !  —  for 
shame,  townspeople ! 

ANOTHER  MAN.  Who's  for  the  plunder  of  the 
Scala's  palace  ? 

MATTEO.     Let  us  on  —  let  us  on ! 

MAN.  The  Ubaldi  palace  is  in  flames  —  come ! 
come ! 

(Matteo,  the  Marquis,  and  Lorenzo  go  forward.) 

SCENE  VI.  A  bowshot  without  the  gate  of  Flor- 
ence. MATTEO  gives  the  basket  to  the  MARQUIS, 
and  taking  from  under  his  coat  the  dark  lantern, 
puts  it  into  LORENZO'S  hand. 

MATTEO.  Now,  my  lord,  you  are  safe.  There's 
many  a  noble  life  will  be  lost  this  night  in  Flor- 
ence —  but  you  are  safe ! 


THE    TWO    BOYS    OP    FLORENCE. 


107 


THE  MARQUIS.     Unfortunate  Florence ! 

MATTEO,  (to  Lorenzo,  aside.)  God  bless  you ! 
remember  the  promise  you  made  me  this  morning 
—  always  to  take  the  part  of  the  poor  when  you 
see  them  wronged. 

LORENZO.  I  will !  And  by  the  faith  of  a  true 
nobleman,  most  worthy  Matteo,  we  will  reward 
thee  for  this  !  —  will  we  not,  father  ? 

THE  MARQUIS.  My  son,  we  will !  Give  me  thy 
hand,  young  man  :  thou  hast  taught  me  one  thing, 
for  which  I  thank  thee  —  thou  hast  taught  me  that 
there  is  virtue  among  the  poor !  Good  night ! 

MATTEO.  My  lord,  good  night!  Noble  Lo- 
renzo, good  night !  (  They  separate.) 


A  BRIEF  MEMOIR  OF 


CONSTANTINE   AND   GIOVANNI. 


BY    THEIR   SISTER. 


-  near  Bath,  1829. 


WE  were  three  orphans,  Constantine,  Giovanni, 
and  myself.  There  were  two  years  difference  in 
all  our  ages  ;  and  Giovanni,  the  youngest,  was  only 
a  year  old  when  my  mother  died ;  —  my  father  had 
then  been  dead  about  six  months.  He  was  a  paint- 
er, a  man  of  fine  imagination ;  and  the  few  pictures 
he  left  at  his  death  are  now  fully  estimated  by  the 
public.  Hundreds  of  pounds  are  paid  eagerly  for 
one  of  his  female  heads ;  and  one  of  his  landscapes 
sells  for  more  than  he  ever  obtained,  during  his  life- 
time, for  all  the  paintings  he  sold. 

My  mother  was  a  young  Florentine  lady,  whom 
my  father  had  married  while  pursuing  his  studies 
in  Italy.  I  remember  her ;  a  vision  of  grace  — 
tender  and  kind ;  but  my  recollection  of  the 
expression  of  her  countenance,  and  the  beauty  of 
her  features,  has  been  assisted  by  her  portrait 
painted  by  my  father ;  which,  with  his  own,  were 
the  only  ones  reserved,  when,  after  his  death,  the 


CONSTANTINE    AND  GIOVANNI.  109 

rest  of  the  pictures  were  sold.  They  were  un- 
framed,  and  hung  in  our  little  room,  and  with  them 
constantly  before  my  eyes,  I  seem  never  to  have 
forgotten  my  parents.  My  mother's  countenance 
is  /one  of  the  tenderest  and  most  feminine  beauty 
—  long,  rich,  dark  hair ;  a  high  forehead,  pure  as 
the  finest  marble ;  features  well  defined,  but  ex- 
tremely delicate,  and  perhaps  most  striking,  from 
an  expression  of  deep  melancholy  and  thought. 
It  was  in  itself  a  study,  and  might  have  passed  as 
such,  had  it  not  been  known  as  a  portrait.  No 
wonder  was  it  that  my  father  loved  her  !  Hers  was 
the  face  from  which  he  drew  his  female  counte- 
nances, and  they  had  all  the  spirituality  and  tender- 
ness so  conspicuous  in  hers.  Besides  her  beauty, 
she  possessed  a  rare  and  glorious  gift  —  the  gift  of 
music  in  the  highest  perfection ;  and,  full  of  the 
intense  poetry  of  her  own  land,  she  had,  like  a  few 
of  her  countrymen,  the  power  of  improvisation. 
I  remember  her  singing,  in  a  low  tone,  strains  so 
sweet,  that,  young  as  I  was,  I  felt  as  it  were 
chained  to  the  spot.  Constantine  remembered  her 
well :  he  said  she  most  frequently  sang  when  my 
father  painted ;  he  said,  too,  that  she  very  rarely 
sang  excepting  in  her  native  tongue,  which,  in- 
deed, my  father  and  she  so  commonly  used,  that 
Constantine  and  myself  spoke  it  more  fluently  than 
English.  With  such  a  woman,  possessing  at  the 
same  time  the  kindest  affections  and  most  amiable 
dispositions,  could  my  father  be  other  than  happy  ? 
They  lived  in  a  country  beautiful  as  their  own 
10 


110  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

imaginations,  and  each  indulging  their  favorite 
tastes ;  and  surrounded  by  us,  whom  they  most 
tenderly  loved,  their  lives  passed  on,  if  not  splen- 
didly, at  least  happily.  From  a  few  circumstances, 
however,  which  Constantine  could  remember,  I 
fear  they  knew  what  it  was  to  be  poor.  But  the 
sorrows  of  poverty  we  never  experienced ;  we  lived 
amidst  affection,  in  the  free  exercise  of  our  limbs 
in  the  open  air.  Green  hills,  sweet,  clear  waters, 
beautiful  flowers  and  butterflies,  —  these  fill  the 
recollection  of  those  early  years. 

But  my  father  died.  I  know  nothing  of  the 
particulars  of  his  illness  ;  I  only  remember  my 
mother's  utter  distress,  —  her  weeping  for  days,  — 
the  funeral,  a  sad  but  incomprehensible  scene, 
—  and  a  silence  and  gloom  in  our  house,  from 
which  we  fled  to  our  favorite  resorts  in  the 
fields.  5  ,v 

What  my  mother's  family  was  I  did  not  at  that 
time  know ;  we  were  too  young  to  be  made  con- 
fidants in  these  things  ;  but  I  have  often  wondered 
she  did  not  return  to  Italy.  My  father  had  no 
near  connections ;  none  to  whom  she  could  fly, 
either  for  comfort  or  assistance.  She  was  a  widow 
in  a  strange  land ! 

Soon  after  my  father's  death,  her  health  began 
to  droop  ;  a  deep  melancholy  settled  on  her  spirits, 
but  the  sweetness  of  her  character  won  the  love 
and  kind  attentions  of  all  around  her  —  poor  and 
uneducated  though  they  were.  Fortunately,  too, 
at  this  time  she  became  known  to  the  pastor  of 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI.  Ill 

the  mountain  district  in  which  we  resided  —  a  hum- 
ble, kind,  and  most  excellent  man.  Through  his 
agency,  she  was  enabled  to  sell  a  few  pictures 
which  remained  at  very  considerable  prices ;  for 
their  value,  on  account  of  the  death  of  the  artist, 
was  greatly  increased.  By  this  means  she  became 
possessed  of  a  little  independence,  which,  while  it 
raised  her  above  want,  tended,  but  in  a  small  de- 
gree, to  remove  her  anxieties  on  our  account.  To 
the  good  man  she  unburdened  her  heart.  He 
voluntarily  took  upon  himself  the  character  of  a 
parent  towards  us  —  which  character  he  faithfully 
sustained  to  the  last  day  of  his  life. 

Six  months  after  my  father's  death,  as  I  said 
before,  we  lost  our  beloved  mother.  Alas!  then 
we  first  knew  sorrow.  In  six  months,  the  under- 
standing of  a  child  makes  great  advance ;  and 
death,  which  in  the  first  instance  may  be  little  felt, 
is  an  event  too  awful  not  to  become  deeply  im- 
pressive by  its  repetition.  Thus,  insensible  perhaps 
as  we  might  be  to  the  loss  of  my  father,  we  deeply 
mourned  now  —  Constantine  and  myself  at  least : 
—  we  knew  that  we  were  orphans  —  that  most 
melancholy  of  all  conditions.  God,  however,  had 
provided  a  protector  in  the  excellent  man  who  had 
been  as  a  father  also  to  our  poor  mother,  and 
by  whom  she  had  indeed  been  regarded  as  a 
daughter. 

After  my  mother's  death,  our  kind  friend  ar- 
ranged our  little  affairs.  Our  small  property  was 
invested  advantageously,  and  produced  a  sum, 


112  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

though  abundant  for  our  maintenance,  totally  in- 
adequate to  procure  us  an  education  better  than 
could  be  obtained  in  our  humble  district ;  but  this 
was  a  loss  of  less  importance,  since  we  were  every 
day  with  our  pastor.  Kind,  worthy  old  man,  how 
more  than  parental  was  his  care  over  us  !  He  was 
a  widower,  and  his  had  been  a  childless  house  till 
he  adopted  us ;  then  he  bestowed  upon  us  all  ih^ 
love  of  his  affectionate  heart.  He  taught  us  all 
that  we  knew;  he  studied  our  tastes,  and  cultivated 
our  understandings,  and  gave  us  a  self-dependence 
of  character,  which,  circumstanced  as  we  were, 
was  of  great  service  to  us  in  after  life.  And  all 
this  was  done  by  a  man  nearly  seventy  years  of  age, 
for  the  children  of  strangers !  He  read  with  us, 
walked  with  us,  partook  of  our  sports ;  and  we,  in 
return,  venerated,  nay,  almost  adored  him.  So 
passed  nine  years  of  our  life. 

Constantine  was  the  noblest-looking  boy  I  ever 
saw,  and  his  spirit  accorded  with  his  person :  gen- 
erous, kind-hearted,  and  daring,  no  adventure  was 
too  perilous  for  him ;  he  was  the  companion  of 
the  shepherds  in  their  mountain  rounds;  he  had 
climbed  every  cliff,  swam  across  every  lake,  and 
knew  every  glen  and  lonely  dwelling  in  our  wild 
and  sequestered  country.  He  was  a  favorite  with 
all ;  for  he  was  manly,  clever,  and  full  of  humor 
and  wit.  Giovanni  was  formed  in  a  different 
mould;  he  strongly  resembled  my  mother;  had 
the  same  features,  the  same  sweet,  sad  expression 
of  countenance.  He  was  delicate,  too,  in  constitu- 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI.  113 

tion,  and  was  incapable  of  partaking  the  boisterous 
sports  and  daring  adventures  of  his  brother.  So 
framed  and  so  constituted,  he  was  much  less  gen- 
erally a  favorite  than  Constantine.  The  truth  was, 
there  were  none,  save  our  pastor,  who  could  un- 
derstand and  appreciate  him ;  he  was  too  full  of 
natural  refinement  for  common  minds,  and  he 
shrunk  from  their  coarse  manners,  nay,  from  their 
rude  kindness,  with  a  morbid  delicacy  which  was 
often  mistaken  for  pride,  and,  sometimes  worse, 
for  ingratitude.  With  his  personal  resemblance  to 
my  mother,  he  also  inherited  her  talent  for  music. 
His  ear  was  quick  and  correct ;  he  seemed  to  un- 
derstand it  scientifically  before  he  could  speak  a 
word  ;  and  his  dear  mother,,  to  the  very  last,  sang 
to  him  the  sweet  and  plaintive  airs  of  which  she 
was  so  fond.  Dear  child  !  his  whole  soul  was  love 
and  music.  Had  we  lived  much  in  society,  he 
would  have  been  shown  off  as  a  prodigy ;  as  it  was, 
he  drew  little  attention,  for  our  good  friend  had  no 
taste  for  music,  and  consequently  but  little  respect 
for  the  art  or  its  professors;  and  though  he  in- 
dulged Giovanni's  talent  to  the  utmost  in  his  power, 
it  was  only  as  a  childish  propensity  which  he  hoped 
he  would  outgrow  as  he  approached  manhood. 

I  possessed  my  father's  talent.  I  cannot  recol- 
lect the  time  when  I  did  not  attempt  to  draw  every 
object  that  pleased  me.  I  made  copies  of  animals' 
heads,  and  occasionally  designs  from  my  own  im- 
agination ;  nor  did  I  ever  hear  of  any  scene,  oc- 
currence, or  person,  which  did  not  immediately 
10* 


114  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

present  itself  to  my  mind  as  a  picture :  these  I 
often  struck  off  at  the  moment,  and  the  praise 
they  frequently  obtained  from  our  partial  friend  was 
all  the  encouragement  and  reward  that  I  coveted. 
My  early  drawings  covered,  and  I  doubt  not  still 
cover,  the  walls  of  the  rooms,  not  only  of  the  par- 
sonage, but  of  many  neighboring  cottages,  whose 
inmates  looked  upon  me  as  a  prodigy  of  the  pic- 
torial art.  But  enough  of  myself;  I  will  return  to 
my  brothers. 

Gonstantine  was  now  fourteen,  and  our  worthy 
friend  proposed  that  he  should  be  brought  up  to 
the  ministry  ;  entertaining,  I  believe,  the  fond  hope 
of  his  succeeding  him  in  the  care  of  his  simple 
flock.  But  my  brother's  earnest  wish  was  to  be 
a  soldier.  The  quiet  life  of  a  country  pastor  had 
no  charms  for  an  active,  and  not  unambitious 
mind  like  his ;  it  therefore  was  with  great  self-sac- 
rifice that  he  gave  up  all  his  pleasant  visions  of  a 
most  enterprising  and  conspicuous  life.  But  his 
studies  were  scarcely  begun  when  our  protector 
was  suddenly  snatched  from  us  by  death. 

He  had  gone  on  a  visit  to  a  sick  man  in  a  neigh- 
boring valley  ;  when,  on  his  return,  feeling  himself 
faint,  he  sat  down  upon  a  piece  of  rock  by  the 
way-side.  Constantine,  who  was  with  him,  sup- 
ported him  in  his  arms ;  but  the  hand  of  death 
was  upon  him,  of  which  the  good  man  was  con- 
scious. 

"  I  am  dying,"  said  he  to  Constantly;  "  yet  be 
not  alarmed  :  death  has  no  terrors  for  me  —  no 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI.  115 

pang  saving  the  separation  from  you,  the  children 
of  my  old  age  —  but  God  will  be  a  father  to  you, 
and  will  raise  you  up  friends  when  I  am  gone  ! " 

Constantine,  composed  and  courageous  as  he 
naturally  was,  was  yet  inexpressibly  shocked  and 
distressed  at  this  sudden  event,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  son  !  "  faintly  exclaimed 
the  excellent  old  man,  feeling  Constantine's  tears 
falling  upon  his  hand  :  "  give  my  love  to  them  at 
home !  " 

These  were  his  last  words ;  and  the  spirit,  all 
purity  and  love,  ascended  to  its  great  reward  ! 

Some  shepherds,  happening  to  pass  by  shortly 
afterwards,  assisted  poor  Constantine  to  convey 
the  body  home.  Now,  indeed,  were  our  sorrows 
renewed  ;  —  now  again  were  we  orphans ;  —  and 
not  we  alone,  but  the  whole  district  were  mourn- 
ers. A  being  more  beloved  never  went  down  to 
the  grave ;  nor  had  one  of  purer  life  ever  ex- 
isted. His  life  had  been  a  series  of  well-doing ; 
he  was  a  sincere,  humble  Christian,  and  one  of 
the  kindest,  most  cheerful  of  human  beings:  this, 
indeed,  was  a  part  of  his  Christianity. 

A  gloomy  time  succeeded  —  a  long,  dreary 
winter ;  and  when  spring  came,  our  minds  had 
not  recovered  their  usual  tone.  The  successor  of 
this  excellent  man  was  one  of  a  totally  different 
character.  He  resided  at  a  great  distance,  and 
held  this  with  several  other  livings.  He  was  a 
stranger  to  all  his  flock,  and  had  no  sympathies  in 
common  with  them.  He  visited  the  church  twice 


116  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

in  the  year  ;  at  other  times,  service  was  performed 
by  the  minister  of  a  neighboring  parish,  who, 
having  the  duties  of  his  own  church  to  attend  to 
also,  was  only  seen  once  on  the  Sunday,  and,  of 
course,  he  had  no  time  to  bestow  upon  the  people 
individually.  This  was  a  melancholy  time,  and 
our  forlorn  situation  excited  the  kindest  sympathy 
of  our  poor  neighbors,  some  of  whom  offered  to 
initiate  Constantine  in  their  humble  callings,  like 
one  of  their  own  children,  free  of  cost.  But  a 
high-spirited  boy,  like  Constantine,  could  not  sub- 
mit himself  to  a  common  handicraft  trade ;  for, 
poor  as  we  were,  we  had  always  an  idea  that  we 
were  of  superior  birth  to  those  among  whom  our 
lot  had  fallen,  and  had  an  undefined  belief  that  we 
should,  in  the  end,  take  that  place  in  society 
which,  had  our  gifted  parents  lived,  their  talents 
would  have  obtained  for  us.  After  Constantine's 
refusal  of  the  well-intentioned  kindness  of  our 
neighbors,  we  were  much  less  objects  of  compas- 
sion than  formerly ;  we  were  called  proud,  and  the 
opinion  which  was  entertained  of  us,  but  more  es- 
pecially of  Gonstantine,  led  to  an  event  which  made 
a  most  painful  change  in  our  circumstances,  and 
which  I  will  relate. 

Constantine  was  one  day  assisting  a  shepherd 
in  removing  his  flocks  from  the  hills  during  a 
storm,  and,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  was  desired 
to  remain  for  a  short  time  at  a  house  of  refresh- 
ment by  the  way-side.  A  party  of  country  people, 
returning  from  market,  were  seated  within  the 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI.  117 

wooden  screen  round  the  fire,  and  Constantine, 
unseen  by  them,  found,  to  his  surprise,  himself 
the  subject  of  their  discourse.  He  had  no  idea 
till  then  that  he  had  given  such  serious  affront 
to  his  former  friends.  He  was  charged  with 
pride,  ingratitude,  and  idleness;  with  being  a 
burden  to  the  honest  people  with  whom  we  dwelt. 
And  even  the  memory  of  our  revered  friend  was 
censured  for  bringing  him  up  with  notions  so 
unbefitting  his  station.  Poor  Constantine !  how 
little  either  he  or  our  lost  friend  deserved  these 
censures ! 

All  this  he  heard,  and  his  heart  rose  to  his  lips, 
and  his  cheek  flushed  with  indignation,  but  he 
restrained  both  his  anger  and  his  emotion ;  and 
when  he  returned  home  in  the  evening,  it  was 
with  more  than  his  usual  vivacity.  He  related  to 
us  ail  that  he  had  heard.  —  "  And  now,"  said  he, 
"  I  have  fixed  my  plans,  and  am  sure  they  will 
succeed." 

"  What  plans,  dear  Constantine  ? "  asked  I  im- 
patiently, for  I  dreaded  his  leaving  us. 

"  Since  you  do  not  like  me  to  be  a  soldier," 
replied  he,  —  for  I  had  always  opposed  his  sol- 
dierly propensities,  —  "I  will  be  a  sailor  —  and 
here  I  will  not  be  opposed.  I  feel  the  utmost  con- 
fidence in  myself;  —  I  could  fancy  myself  many 
years  older  since  I  have  come  to  this  determina- 
tion. I  shall  set  off  for  Liverpool  to-morrow ;  and 
in  a  few  weeks  I  shall  be  in  the  way  to  make  a 
fortune  —  a  fortune  for  you  also !  " 


118  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

Constantine  finished  his  speech  without  interrup- 
tion :  had  a  sudden  dumbness  fallen  upon  me,  I 
could  not  have  felt  less  capable  of  replying. 

"  I,  too,  dear  brother,"  said  Giovanni,  "  will 
go;  I  am  not  the  sickly  boy  they  take  me  for; 
you  shall  not  run  all  risks  for  us  ;  I  can  do  more 
than  you  suppose/'  argued  Giovanni,  laying  his 
beautiful  small  hand  upon  his  brother's  arm. 

"  No,  no !  "  said  Constantine,  with  decision, 
"  no,  Giovanni,  you  must  stay  with  Magdeline ! 
When  I  am  gone,  there  will  be  but  two  to  be  sup- 
ported, and  there  will  be  plenty.  Every  sixpence 
of  my  share  in  our  little  property,  from  this  mo- 
ment, I  give  up  to  Magdeline  and  you !  " 

I  threw  myself  on  his  neck  —  I  wept  as  I  had 
never  wept  before  —  I  besought  him  to  stay  with 
us  —  to  let  us  labor  altogether  —  to  let  us  submit  to 
any  thing,  rather  than  be  separated  :  —  but  he  was 
unmoved  —  his  conduct  appeared  unaccountable 
to  me  ;  he  not  only  appeared  firm,  but,  I  thought, 
stern  in  rejecting  our  prayers ;  and  commanded 
us,  as  a  father  might  have  commanded  his  chil- 
dren, to  drop  the  subject,  and  let  us  finish  the  even- 
ing in  joy.  "Come,  Giovanni,"  said  he,  "let  us 
hear  some  music  !  " 

Giovanni  took  up  the  instrument,  but  he  played 
feebly ;  and  when  he  raised  his  voice  to  sing,  sobs 
choked  his  utterance.  "  I  am  wretched  ! "  said 
the  dear  boy,  "  and  I  cannot  give  expression  to 
my  feelings.  Dear,  dear  Constantine,"  continued 
he,  '<  if  you  go,  I  shall  never  see  your  face  again  !  " 


CONStfANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI,  119 

and  he  wept  as  if  his  heart  would  break.  Con- 
stantine,  too,  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  and 
we  were  silent  for  many  minutes. 

At  length,  "  Come,  come,"  said  he,  endeavoring 
to  look  calm,  "  come,  Giovanni,  have  done,  —  this 
is  all  folly  !  and,  Magdeline,"  continued  he  in  a 
gayer  tone,  "  since  we  cannot  have  music,  let  us 
see  your  folio.  Have  you  any  thing  new  to  show 
me  ?  Will  you  give  me  this  ?  "  said  he,  selecting 
one  from  the  many  sketches,  (it  was  a  head  of 
Giovanni.) 

"  Yes,"  said  I, "  and  this,  and  this,  if  you  will  only 
promise  not  to  go  to  sea !  "  Alas !  I  little  thought 
why  he  was  asking  for  one  ;  it  was  in  the  fixed 
resolution  of  leaving  us,  and  for  a  parting  token. 

The  next  morning,  to  our  utter  consternation, 
he  was  gone.  He  had  packed  up  his  few  clothes 
unknown  to  any  one,  and  leaving  a  few  kind 
words  of  farewell  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  which  Gi- 
ovanni found  on  his  pillow,  was  many  miles  dis- 
tant ere  we  discovered  his  flight. 

In  three  weeks'  time  he  wrote  to  inform  us  of 
what,  he  called  his  good  fortune.  He  had  made 
an  engagement  with  the  master  of  a  merchant 
vessel,  and  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  for  the 
East  Indies.  The  letter  was  in  a  strain  of  gayety, 
little  in  accordance  with  our  feelings,  but  full  of 
ardent  affection,  and  breathing  his  own  cheerful 
and  sanguine  spirit,  which  always  looked  forward 
to  the  future  with  confidence.  Since  then  we  have 
heard  no  tidings  of  him,  saving  that  the  ship  in 


120  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

which  he  sailed  arrived  safely  at  her  destination, 
Dear  Constantine !  would  that  it  had  pleased 
Heaven  to  reward  his  virtuous  intentions  with 
the  success  which,  according  to  our  human  rea- 
soning, they  so  well  merited !  Time  went  on ; 
and  though  we  became  in  some  degree  reconciled 
to  his  absence,  we  never  ceased  mourning  for  him 
whom  we  could  consider  but  as  one  dead.  Still, 
occasionally  we  had  hope,  and  we  talked  over  his 
happy  return  ;  the  more  happy  for  our  uncertainty 
and  fear.  But,  alas!  now  my  hope  is  over.  I 
have  seen  Giovanni  laid  in  his  grave,  and  I  feel 
that  I  am  alone  in  the  world ! 

But  let  me  proceed  with  my  narrative. 

Shortly  after  Constantine's  departure,  Giovanni 
became  ill ;  and  though,  after  the  lapse  of  several 
months,  he  appeared  perfectly  recovered,  I  could 
not  avoid  remarking,  that  the  resemblance  to  my 
mother  was  stronger  than  ever,  —  and  the  resem- 
blance not  to  her  in  her  strength  and  health,  but 
in  her  declining  state.  This  mournful  resem- 
blance filled  my  spirit  with  inexpressible  sadness. 

With  his  weakness,  the  sweetness  of  his  affec- 
tionate nature  yet  more  revealed  itself;  he  leaned 
on  me  as  on  the  sole  hope  of  his  life  ;  I  was  mother, 
brother,  and  sister,  all  in  one,  and  my  tender  af- 
fection for  him  increased  more  and  more.  He 
was  dearer  because  so  dependent  upon  me ;  and, 
weak  and  feeble  as  he  was,  I  would  not  have  ex- 
changed him  for  any  living  brother  in  the  uni- 
verse. 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI.  121 

1  omitted  to  mention  before,  that  the  cottager 
with  whom  we  resided  was  the  organist  of  the 
little  church  of  our  hamlet.  The  organ  was  a 
fine  instrument  for  so  remote  and  rarely  frequented 
a  place.  It  had  been  the  gift  of  a  gentleman  of 
great  taste  and  musical  talent,  who  was  born  and 
resided  many  years  there,  but  who  had  now  re- 
moved to  a  distant  part  of  the  kingdom.  The 
organist  had  been  trained  under  his  direction,  and 
would  often  speak  of  those  times  as  of  a  golden 
age,  when  people  came  far  and  near  to  hear  him 
perform.  "But  now,"  he  would  say  with  a  sigh, 
"  the  church  is,  deserted,  nobody  cares  for  music 
now-a-days ! "  With  the  old  organist  Giovanni 
was  a  favorite,  and  he  used,  in  his  most  flattering 
moments,  to  predict  that  he  should  be  his  succes- 
sor. The  organ  was,  as  may  be  supposed,  Gio- 
vanni's delight,  and  my  heart  has  ached  many  a 
time  to  think  that  the  cause  of  his  delicate  health 
might  be  attributed  to  colds  he  took  in  practising 
in  the  church,  even  in  the  severest  weather,  and 
from  which  he  could  not  be  deterred,  except  by 
extreme  indisposition. 

When  Giovanni  was  about  fourteen,  Mr.  B , 

the  patron  of  the  parish,  after  an  absence  of 
twenty  years,  suddenly  made  his  appearance  at 
his  native  village  late  one  Saturday  evening. 
Whether  it  was  that  the  good  old  organist  feared 
to  perform  again  before  the  critical  ear  of  his 
patron,  or  that  a  sudden  indisposition  did  indeed 
seize  him,  I  cannot  say ;  but  on  the  following 
11 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

morning  he  declared  himself  unable  to  leave  his 
bed,  and  lamented  that  the  organ  must  go  un 
played,  which  he  knew  would  be  a  great  disap- 
pointment to  Mr.  B . 

But  the  organ  did  not  go  unplayed  upon.  "  I 
have  practised  upon  it  too  often,"  said  Giovanni  to 
me  secretly,  "  not  to  succeed  now."  No  one  but 
myself  knew  his  design,  and  at  his  request,  I  seated 
myself  with  him  at  the  instrument,  concealing  our- 
selves with  the  curtains.  I  saw  Mr.  B enter 

the  church,  and  place  himself  immediately  opposite 
to  the  organ,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  it,  appar- 
ently wait  with  impatience  for  the  performance. 
Giovanni  played  with  beautiful  precision  and  feel- 
ing, and  I  knew  by  the  gentleman's  countenance 
that  he  was  both  surprised  and  pleased.  The 
sermon  was  done,  a  concluding  psalm  was  played, 
and  then  I  saw  by  Giovanni's  eye  his  state  of  mind, 
—  he  had  forgotten  time  and  place,  and  he  poured 
forth  a  voluntary,  composed  at  the  moment  to  his 
own  inspired  feelings,  with  which  he  mingled  the 
clear  yet  low  tones  of  his  sweet  voice.  The  whole 
congregation  was  electrified.  Simple  and  unedu- 
cated as  they  were,  the  expression  of  that  wonder- 
ful music  touched  every  foul ;  and  a  silence,  like 
that  of  the  grave,  succeeded  its  conclusion,  —  and 
then  a  universal  whisper,  and  then  a  loudly-mur- 
mured applause ;  but  when  they  looked  for  the 
strange  musician,  he  was  not  to  be  found.  Short 
as  the  effort  had  been,  I  saw  it  had  exhausted  him, 
-and  therefore  led  him  immediately  home. 


eONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

All  who  knew  Giovanni  readily  conjectured 
that  it  was  he.  Of  course  Mr.  B.'s  curiosity  was 
intense;  and  scarcely  stopping  to  make  any  rec- 
ognitions among  his  old  acquaintance,  he  hurried 
to  the  organist.  The  tidings  of  the  strange  per- 
formance had  already  reached  him ;  and  as,  during 
the  service,  he  had  found  himself  much  better,  and 
had  left  his  bed,  he  went  forth  to  meet  his  old 
patron.  "  You  are  come,"  said  he,  meeting  him 
at  the  door,  "  to  inquire  who  played  the  organ  this 
morning ;  —  you  do  not  think  it  was  I  —  you  are 
right,  —  but  it  was  a  youth  of  whom  I,  in  some 
sort,  may  be  said  to  have  had  the  teaching :  —  he 
has  a  fine  ear,  sir,  and  understands  the  organ  as 
well,  pretty  near,  as  myself!  " 

"And  where  is  he,  and  who  is  he?"  asked 
Mr.  B. 

"Poor  lad/'  replied  the  organist,  "he  is  an 
orphan,  and  as  delicate  as  a  crushed  flower ;  he  is 

the  son  of ,  a  great  painter,  they  tell  me, 

who  died  under  this  very  roof,  some  fourteen  years 
ago.  But  come  in,  sir,  and  you  shall  see  him  !  " 

It  was  a  fortunate  day  for  us ;  and  from  that 
time  forward  We  never  wanted  either  home  or 
friends.  Mr.  B.  was  one  who  could  understand 
Giovanni's  excitable  nature,  and  sympathize  in  his 
feelings^  —  the  first  person  beside  his  lamented 
brother,  the  pastor,  and  myself,  from  whom  he 
did  not  shrink,  as  from  a  nature  totally  different 
to  his  own. 

I  will  not  detail  the  particulars  of  the  month  that 


124  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

followed  :  in  that  time  our  circumstances  had  un- 
dergone an  entire  change.  We  had  left,  with 
many  regretful  feelings,  it  must  be  confessed,  the 
cottage  among  the  hills,  and  its  kind  and  worthy 
inmates,  from  whom,  in  our  afflictions,  we  had 
ever  received  the  kindest  sympathy.  We  were 
become  the  adopted  children  of  a  new  friend  ;  we 
had  found  a  mother  in  his  wife ;  and  were  estab- 
lished amid  abundance  and  ease,  in  a  quiet  man- 
sion, near  Bath.  A  new  life  had  opened  to  us; 
but  it  was  too  late  for  Giovanni  to  enjoy  any 
change,  however  favorable.  The  most  skilful  phy- 
sicians were  consulted  on  his  case,  but  the  more 
skilful  they  were,  the  less  hope  they  gave.  Ex- 
citement, they  all  agreed,  would  kill  him ;  and  it 
was  impossible  to  keep  a  nature  like  his  free  from 
it.  The  stimulus  was  within  ;  and  things  which 
would  not  have  moved  an  ordinary  mind,  —  a  fine 
sunset,  the  rich  odor  of  a  flower,  the  pictures  that 
surrounded  him, — all  produced  that  very  state 
of  mind  which  was  death.  A  dreadful,  incessant 
palpitation  of  the  heart,  burning  cheeks,  a  more 
beautifully  brilliant  eye,  —  these  were  the  out- 
ward and  visible  signs  of  his  malady  ;  and  it  was 
impossible  not  to  see,  from  week  to  week,  what 
havock  it  was  making  in  his  bodily  powers.  There 
was  an  extraordinary  interest  excited  about  him, 
—  constant  and  anxious  inquiries  after  him,  from 
hundreds  of  persons ;  for  his  singular  story,  which 
had  been  made  known,  and  his  striking  exterior, 
had  attracted  much  attention ;  but  alas !  his  days 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI,  125 

were  numbered.  Music  was  now  forbidden,  and 
a  state  of  profound  rest  enjoined  as  a  last  hope. 

All,  this  time,  while  his  strength  was  rapidly 
declining,  he  could  scarcely  be  made  sensible  of 
his  danger  ;  his  spirits  were  generally  high,  and  he 
took  great  delight  and  interest  in  all  that  surround- 
ed him ;  and  had  music  been  permitted  him,  fatal 
as  it  must  have  been,  he  would  have  been  perfect- 
ly happy.  Occasionally,  however,  a  presentiment 
of  death  came  over  him,  and  his  affectionate  heart 
indulged  a  natural  grief  in  the  prospect  of  leaving 
us.  Still,  the  hope  of  meeting  again,  and  con- 
versing with  our  beloved  Constantine,  made  the 
prospect  of  death  less  appalling.  But  why  should 
I  prolong  so  sad  a  story?  —  He  died.  On  the 
last  day  of  his  beautiful  and  innocent  life,  when  all 
hope  for  him  was  over,  he  begged  for  an  instru- 
ment ;  it  was  permitted  to  him,  for,  said  the  phy- 
sician, it  may  allay  his  irritation  —  and  it  cannot 
produce  a  worse  state  than  that  from  which  he  is 
now  suffering.  Alas!  he  did  not  know  how  frail 
was  his  thread  of  life  —  how  fatal  that  indulgence 
would  be ! 

There  were  only  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B- and  my- 
self with  him  :  he  was  reclininor  on  a  couch. 

'  O 

When  he  heard  that  the  use  of  his  instrument 
would  be  permitted  him,  on  condition  of  his  com- 
posing himself  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  his  counte- 
nance assumed  an  expression  of  almost  angelic 
delight,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  he  thanked  us, 
and  promised  implicit  obedience.  He  took  the 
11* 


126  CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 

instrument,  struck  a  few  feeble  tones  —  paused  a 
moment,  and  then,  slightly  raising  himself,  poured 
forth  the  whole  of  his  pent-up  feelings  in  a  tide 
of  the  most  soul-touching  music.  At  length  he 
stopped. 

"  I  can  play  no  more,"  exclaimed  he,  and  laying 
his  head  upon  my  shoulder,  seemed  gradually  to 
sink  into  a  deep  sleep.  I  believed  he  had  thus 
composed  himself,  when  I  observed  a  glance  of 
sorrowful  meaning  pass  between  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

B .     I  understood  it  too  well !      My  beloved 

brother  was  no  more  ! 

I  cannot  proceed ;  —  the  remembrance  of  that 
time  overcomes  me  :  three  years  have  passed  since 
then;  but  we  never  speak  of  Giovanni  without 
tears. 

1830. 

My  dear  brother  Constantine  still  lives! — A 
letter  from  him  has  arrived.  What  a  joyful  letter  ! 
and  yet  sorrowful  iri  one  respect,  since  it  is  ad- 
dressed both  to  Giovanni  and  myself.  Colonel 

Allan,  too,  of  the regiment,  mentioned  in  the 

letter  as  returning  to  England,  we  have  seen.  He 
knows  Constantine  well.  What  a  delight  to  con- 
verse with  one  that  knows  him  and  has  seen  him 
but  lately  !  What  a  delight,  too,  to  hear  the  hon- 
orable manner  in  which  he  speaks  of  him  !  O 
how  my  heart  overflows  with  gratitude  to  that  good 
Providence  that  has  sustained  him,  and  preserved 
him  to  me ! 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI.  127 

The  following  is  the  brief  outline  of  his  history 
since  he  left  England,  as  given  by  Colonel  Allan. 

He  sailed  to  Calcutta,  and  thence  to  New  South 
Wales,  and  on  his  return  the  vessel  was  driven  out 
of  her  course  and  wrecked  on  one  of  the  Molucca 
islands,  and  all  the  crew  perished  excepting  five,, 
one  of  whom  was  Constantine.  They  were  de- 
tained three  years  in  hard  captivity,  from  which, 
after  a  series  of  adventures  almost  as  romantic  as 
those  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  they  were  delivered 
through  the  aid  of  Major  Downing  of  Madras, 
who  had  heard,  accidentally,  of  a  small  number 
of  English  sailors  being  captive  in  the  Moluccas. 
By  this  means  Major  Downing  became  acquainted 
with  Constantine,  and  presented  him  with  a  cadet- 
ship  in  his  own  forces.  Thus  he  honorably  com- 
menced his  military  career.  He  has  since  served 
in  two  campaigns  up  the  country,  and,  according 
to  the  mode  of  promotion  in  the  India  service, 
held,  at  the  time  of  his  writing,  a  captain's  com- 
mission. All  this,  it  appears,  we  ought  to  have 
known,  for  Constantine,  his  friend  says,  to  his  own 
knowledge,  wrote  to  us  —  but  his  letter  we  never 
received.  Speaking  of  himself,  my  brother  writes 
thus  in  the  letter  now  before  me. 

"  I  am  not  the  little  Constantine  you  knew  me. 
I  am  twenty-one  years  old  ;  my  brown  hair  is  be- 
come black  as  jet,  and  I  am  t^ie  color  of  old  ma- 
hogany ;  but  I  am  well  and  happy ;  the  climate 
agrees  with  me ;  I  have  not  been  ill  for  a  single 


128 


CONSTANTINE    AND    GIOVANNI. 


day.  I  have  a  house  of  my  own ;  three-and-twenty 
servants,  and  a  stud  of  elephants;  we  live  on  rice 
and  currie,  are  as  temperate  as  Bramins,  and  yet 
lead  lives  like  princes.  I  only  want  you,  my  little 
Magdeline,  and  Giovanni,  (would  that  he  had  been 
spared  to  know  these  joyful  tidings,)  with  his  sweet 
music,  and  saint-like  countenance,  to  make  me 
perfectly  happy.  I  want  you  to  come  here  —  and 
I  send  by  my  friend,  Colonel  Allan,  about  five  hun- 
dred pounds  —  this  will  enable  you  to  do  so. 
Allan  will  tell  you  all  that  is  needful  to  be  done, 
and  has  the  goodness  to  undertake  the  manage- 
ment of  every  thing." 

My  kind  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  B ,  will  not 

consent  to  my  departure ;  but  instead  of  myself, 
Constantine  will  receive  tidings  both,  of  joy  and 
sorrow ;  and  the  time  may  come,  if  so  Heaven 
wills  it,  when  we  may  meet  again  in  England, 
and  talk  over  the  varied  events  of  our  singular 
histories. 


MARTHA  AND  MARY. 


IT  was  when  the  persecution  of  the  people  called 
Quakers  had,  for  a  short  season,  somewhat  abated 
its  rigor,  and  they  ventured  to  attend  their  religious 
assemblies  without  fear  of  injury  to  their  families 
in  the  mean  time,,  that  Walter  Pixley  and  his  wife 
a  staid  and  respectable  couple  belonging  to  that 
despised  community,  rode  eleven  miles  to  their 
county  town  of  Stafford,  to  be  present  at  a  meet- 
ing, at  which  that  apostle-like  young  man,  Edward 
Burrough,  was  to  preach,  leaving  their  little  daugh- 
ter, Martha,  under  the  care  of  an  aged  woman, 
who  was,  at  that  time,  their  sole  female  domestic. 

Martha  was  a  grave  child,  though  but  seven 
years  of  age :  her  young  mind  had  taken  its  tone 
from  both  of  her  parents.  She  had  been  born  in 
a  season  of  persecution,  had  been  cradled,  as  it 
were,  in  anxiety  and  sorrow,  and  as  she  grew  old 
enough  to  comprehend  the  circumstances  that  sur- 
rounded her,  she  saw  her  parents  constantly  filled 
with  apprehension  for  the  safety  of  their  lives  and 
property.  She  had  heard  them  talk  over  the 
grievances,  spoiling  of  goods,  the  maimings,  the 
whippings,  and  the  horrible  sufferings  of  their 


130  MARTHA  AND  MARY. 

persecuted  brethren  —  persecuted  even  to  the 
death ;  had  heard  of  little  children  enduring,  with 
the  steadfastness  of  early  martyrs,  imprisonments 
and  pains,  which  would  overcome  even  the  strong 
man ;  till,  unlike  the  ordinary  child  of  her  years, 
her  countenance  habitually  wore  a  look  of  gravity, 
and  her  heart  bled  at  the  least  thought  of  suffering 
or  sorrow. 

Martha's  home  was  in  a  country  place,  sur- 
rounded by  fields  —  a  pleasant,  quiet  valley,  the 
patrimonial  heritage  of  her  father.  It  was  harvest 
time,  and  in  the  course  of  the  morning  the  old 
servant  went  out  with  the  reapers'  dinners,  leaving 
little  Martha  to  amuse  herself  in  her  usual  quiet 
way.  She  had  not  been  long  alone  before  a  beg- 
gar-woman presented  herself  with  a  young  child 
in  her  arms.  Martha  knew  that  it  was  her  moth- 
er's custom  to  relieve  distress  in  whatever  shape 
it  presented  itself,  and  the  story  the  woman  told, 
whether  false  or  true,  touched  her  to  the  soul ;  she 
gave  her,  therefore,  the  dinner  which  had  been  set 
aside  for  herself,  and  compassionated  her  in  words 
of  the  truest  sympathy,  and  when  the  child  in  the 
woman's  arms  wept,  like  Pharaoh's  daughter,  her 
heart  yearned  towards  it.  Strange  it  may  be  to 
all,  but  so  it  was,  for  our  story  is  true,  when  the 
beggar-woman  saw  the  affection  with  which  little 
Martha  regarded  the  child,  she  proposed  to  sell  it 
to  her,  and  Martha,  innocent  of  all  guile,  readily 
accepted  the  proposal.  All  her  little  hoard  of 
money  was  produced,  —  the  bargain  was  struck, 


MARTHA   AND   MARY.  131 

and  the  two  parted  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
transaction.  The  child  was  beautiful  as  the  He- 
brew  boy  himself;  and  Martha  sat  down  with  it 
upon  her  knee>  and  lavished  upon  it  all  the  eiv 
dearing  tenderness  which  her  most  affectionate 
nature  suggested. 

In  a  short  time  the  child  fell  asleep ;  and  as  she 
sat  gazing  upon  it,  a  half-defined  fear  stole  into 
her  mind,  that  perhaps  she  had  done  wrong  in 
taking  upon,  her  this  charge  unknown  to  her  par- 
ents, —  that  perhaps  they  would  be  displeased. 
She  rose  up  in  haste,  and  looked  from  door  and 
window  for  the  beggar-woman,  but  neither  across 
the  fields,  nor  down  the  valley,  nor  upon  the  dis- 
tant highways,  was  she  to  be  seen;  and  then,  with 
that  sentiment,,  which,  from  the  time  of  the  first 
error  in  Paradise,  has  become  apart  of  our  human 
nature,  she  was  afraid,  and  thought  to  hide  the 
child.  She  made  it  a  comfortable,  warm  bed,  with 
a  blanket,  in  a  large  press,  and  kissing  its  sleeping 
eyes,  and  wishing  that  she  had  no  fear,  she  left  it 
to  its  repose,  and  began  with  great  anxiety  to  look 
out  for  the  return  of  her  parents.  To  the  old  do- 
mestic she  said  not  one  word  of  what  she  had 
done. 

After  two  hours,  all  which  time  the  child  slept 
soundly,  Walter  Pixley  and  his  wife  returned. 
The  good  mother,  who  was  accustomed  to  help  in 
all  the  domestic  business,  employed  herself  in  pre- 
paring the  early  afternoon  meal,  and  Martha  sat 
down  with  her  parents  to  partake  of  it.  While 


MARTHA   AND    MARY, 

Walter  Pixley  and  his  wife  were  in  the  midst  of 
their  review  of  the  events  of  the  morning  —  of 
Edward  Burrough's  extraordinary  sermon,  and  of 
the  concourse  to  whom  it  was  addressed  —  they  were 
startled  by  what  seemed  to  them  the  cry  of  a  child. 
Martha's  heart  beat  quick,  and  her  sweet  face 
grew  suddenly  pale ;  but  her  parents  were  not  ob- 
serving her.  The  good  man  stopped  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  sentence,  and  both  he  and  his  wife  turned 
their  heads  towards  the  part  of  the  house  whence 
the  sound  proceeded,  listened  for  a  second  or  two, 
and  then,  all  being  again  still,  without  remarking 
upon  what  they  supposed  was  fancy,  they  went  on 
again  with  their  conversation.  Again  a  cry  louder 
and  more  determined  was  heard  ;  and  again  they 
paused.  «'  Surely,"  said  the  wife,  "  that  is  the 
voice  of  a  young  child." 

The  critical  moment  was  now  come  —  conceal- 
ment was  no  longer  possible ;  and  Martha's  affec- 
tion mastering  her  fear,  as  the  infant  continued  to 
cry,  she  darted  from  the  table  and  exclaimed, 
"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  my  child  !  "  and  the  next  moment 
was  heard  audibly  soothing  her  little  charge,  in 
the  chamber  above,  with  all  the  tenderness  of  the 
fondest  mother. 

Mrs.  Pixley  was  soon  at  her  daughter's  side, 
full  of  the  most  inconceivable  astonishment,  and 
demanded  from  her  whence  the  child  had  come, 
or  how  it  had  been  consigned  to  her  charge. 
Martha  related  the  story  with  perfect  honesty. 
The  old  domestic  was  then  summoned,  but  she 


MARTHA    AND    MARY.  133 

knew  hothing  of  the  affair.  They  were  not  long 
deliberations  that  followed.  The  family  could 
not  conscientiously  burden  themselves  with  another 
dependant,  and  one  especially  who  had  no  natural 
claim  upon  them,  in  these  perilous  and  anxious 
times,  when  they  could  not  even  insure  security 
for  themselves ;  and,  besides  this,  how  did  they 
know  but  this  very  circumstance  might  be  made, 
in  some  way  or  other,  a  cause  of  offence  or  of 
persecution?  for  the  world  looked  with  jealous 
and  suspicious  eyes  upon  the  poor  Quakers. 
Father  Pixley,  therefore,  soon  determined  what 
he  had  to  do  in  the  affair,  —  to  make  the  circum- 
stances known  at  the  next  village  ;  to  inquire  after 
the  woman,  who,  no  doubt,  had  been  seen  either 
before  or  after  parting  with  the  child  ;  and  also  to 
state  the  whole  affair  to  the  nearest  justice  of  the 
peace. 

Within  an  hour,  therefore,  after  the  discovery 
of  the  child,  the  good  man  might  be  seen  making 
known  his  strange  news  at  the  different  places  of 
resort  in  the  village,  and  inquiring  from  all  if  such 
a  person  as  the  little  girl  had  described  the  woman 
to  be,  had  been  seen  by  any ;  but  to  his  chagrin 
and  amazement,  no  one  could  give  him  infor- 
mation ;  such  a  person  had  evidently  not  been 
there.  He  next  hastened  to  the  justice's.  It  was 
now  evening,  and  Walter  Pixley  was  informed  that 
his  worship  very  rarely  transacted  any  business 
after  dinner,  and  that  especially  "  he  would  not 
with  a  Quaker."  Walter,  however,  was  not  easily 
12 


134  MARTHA    AND    MARY. 

to  be  put  by  ;  he  felt  his  business  was  important, 
and,  by  help  of  a  gratuity  to  the  servant,  he 
gained  admittance. 

The  justice  was  engaged  over  his  wine,  and  he 
received  Walter  Pixley  very  gruffly,  and  in  the  end 
threatened  him  with  a  committal  to  jail  for  his 
pains.  The  poor  Quaker  had  been  in  jail  the 
whole  of  the  preceding  winter,  and  he  remembered 
too  wofully  the  horror  of  that  dungeon  to  bring 
upon  himself  willingly  a  second  incarceration.  It 
was  of  no  use  seeking  for  help  at  the  hands  of  the 
justice ;  therefore  he  urged  his  business  no  fur- 
ther, and  returned  quietly  to  his  own  house. 

Against  the  will,  therefore,  of  the  elder  Pixleys, 
the  child  was  established  with  them ;  and  it  was 
not  long  before  the  father  and  mother  as  cordially 
adopted  it  as  their  little  daughter  had  done  from 
the  first  beholding  it.  "  For  who  knows,"  argued 
the  good  Walter  Pixley,  "but  the  child  may  be 
designed  for  some  great  work,  and  therefore  re- 
moved thus  singularly  from  the  ways  of  evil,  for 
our  teaching  and  bringing  up  ?  Let  us  not  gain- 
say or  counteract  the  ways  of  Providence."  This 
reasoning  abundantly  satisfied  the  pious  minds  of 
the  good  Friends,  and  the  little  stranger  was  reg- 
ularly installed  a  member  of  the  family  by  the 
kindred  name  of  Mary. 

At  the  time  little  Mary  was  first  received  under 
this  hospitable  roof,  she  might  be  about  six  months 
old  —  a  child  of  uncommon  beauty  ;  nor  as  the 
months  advanced  into  years  was  the  promise  of 


MARTHA    AND    MARY.  135 


her  infancy  disappointed.  She  was,  in  disposition* 
and  tone  of  mind,  the  very  reverse  of  her  grave 
and  gentle  elder  sister,  as  Martha  was  now  con- 
sidered ;  she  was  bold  and  full  of  mirth ;  full  of 
such  unbroken  buoyancy  of  heart  as  made  the 
sober  mother  Pixley  half  suspect  that  she  must 
have  come  of  some  race  of  wild  people.  Certain 
it  was,  the  subdued  and  grave  spirit  of  the  Pixleys 
never  influenced  her  ;  and  as  Martha  grew  up  into 
womanhood,  and  the  quietness  and  sobriety  of  her 
younger  years  matured  into  fixed  principle,  she 
embraced  with  a  firm  mind  the  peculiar  tenets  in 
which  she  had  been  brought  up,  and  would  have 
stood  to  the  death  for  the  maintenance  of  them. 
Mary  also  advanced  past  the  years  of  girlhood,  but 
still  remained  the  gay,  glad,  bold-spirited  being 
that  she  had  ever  been.  She  revered  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  persecuted  body  to  whom  her  friends 
belonged,  and  would  have  suffered  fearlessly  for 
their  sakes ;  still  their  principles  and  practices  she 
never  would  adopt.  Her  beautiful  person  was 
adorned,  as  far  as  she  had  opportunity,  in  the  pre- 
vailing fashion  of  the  times;  and  she  often  grieved 
the  sober  minds  of  every  member  of  the  family, 
by  carolling  forth  "  profane  songs,"  as  Mrs.  Pixley 
called  them ;  while  how  she  became  acquainted 
with  them  remained  forever  a  mystery.  Often  did 
the  conscientious  mind  of  father  Pixley  question 
with  himself,  whether  it  was  quite  right  to  main- 
tain so  light  a  maiden  under  his  roof;  but  then  the 
affectionate  being,  who  had  no  friends  save  them 


136  MARTHA    AND    MARY. 

in  the  world,  had  so  entwined  herself  round  the 
hearts  of  all  the  household,  that  the  good  man 
banished  the  idea  as  inhuman,  and  never  ventured 
to  give  it  utterance.  Martha  and  her  mother,  mean- 
time, strove  to  win  over  this  bright  young  creature 
to  their  own  views,  and  for  a  few  moments  she 
would  settle  her  beautiful  face  to  a  solemn  expres- 
sion, try  to  subdue  what  her  friends  called  "  her 
airy  imagination,"  and  attend  the  preaching  of 
some  eminent  Friend.  But  it  would  not  do,  —  the 
true  character  burst  forth  through  all,  —  Mary  wat 
again  all  wit  and  laughter,  and,  though  her  friends 
reproved,  they  loved  her,  and  forgave  all. 

On  the  accession  of  James  II.,  which  is  the 
period  at  which  our  little  narrative  is  now  arrived, 
persecution  raged  again  with  greater  violence  than 
ever ;  and  the  Pixleys,  along  with  seventeen  other 
Friends,  both  men  and  women,  were  dragged  from 
their  meeting-house  by  a  brutal  soldiery,  under  the 
command  of  the  justice  we  have  before  mentioned, 
to  the  dungeon-like  county  jail,  in  the  depth  of 
winter.  The  hardships  they  endured  were  so 
dreadful  that  it  is  painful  to  relate  them.  They 
were  kept  many  days  without  food,  and  allowed 
neither  fire  nor  candle  ;  their  prison  was  damp  and 
cold,  and  they  were  furnished  with  straw  only  for 
their  beds;  they  were  also  forbidden  to  see  their 
friends,  who  might  have  procured  them  some  of 
the  necessaries  of  life ;  nor  were  they  allowed  to 
represent,  by  letter,  their  case  to  any  influential  man 
of  the  county,  who  might  have  interested  himself 


MARTHA    AND    MARY.  137 

in  their  behalf.  And  to  all  this  was  added  the 
brutality  of  a  cruel  jailer,  who  heaped  upon  them 
all  the  ignominy  he  could  devise.  In  these  dread- 
ful circumstances  lay  the  gentle  Martha  Pixley  and 
her  parents.  Mary,  not  having  accompanied  them 
to  their  place  of  worship,  did  not  share  their  fate. 

Poor  mother  Pixley's  health  had  long  been  de- 
clining, and  this  confinement  reduced  her  so  low 
that  in  a  few  days  her  life  was  despaired  of;  still, 
no  medical  aid  could  be  procured,  and  the  cloaks 
and  coats  of  nfany  of  her  suffering  companions 
were  given  up  to  furnish  covering  for  her  miser- 
able bed. 

When  the  news  came  to  Mary  of  the  c6mmittal 
of  her  friends  to  jail,  the  distress  of  her  mind  ex- 
pressed itself  in  a  burst  of  uncontrollable  indigna- 
tion ;  and  then,  asking  counsel  of  no  one,  she 
threw  on  her  hat  and  cloak,  and  taking  with  her  an 
old  man  who  lived  in  the  family  as  a  laborer,  she 
hurried  to  the  justice's ;  and,  as  she  did  not  appear 
with  any  mark  of  the  despised  Quaker,  either  in 
dress  or  manner,  she  soon  obtained  admittance. 
The  magistrate  was  somewhat  startled  by  the  sud- 
den apparition  of  so  fair  and  young  a  maiden,  and 
demanded  her  pleasure  with  unwonted  courtesy, 
seating  her  in  the  chair  beside  him,  and  removing 
from  his  head  the  laced  hat  which  he  was  wearing 
at  her  entrance.  Mary  made  her  demand  for  the 
liberation  of  her  friends,  the  Quakers.  The  jus- 
tice stared,  as  if  doubting  his  senses,  and  rallied 
her  on  the  strangeness  of  her  request,  charging 


138 


MARTHA    AND    MARY. 


upon  the  Quakers  all  those  absurd  and  monstrous 
things  which  were  alleged  against  them  in  those 
days.  Mary,  nothing  abashed,  denied  every  charge 
as  false,  and  demanded,  if  not  the  liberation  of  her 
friends,  at  least  the  amelioration  of  their  sufferings. 
As  Mary  pleaded,  the  justice  grew  angry,  and  at 
length  the  full  violence  of  his  temper  broke  forth, 
and  the  high-spirited  girl,  even  more  indignant  than 
terrified,  rushed  from  his  presence. 

What  was  next  to  be  done  ?  She  ordered  her 
old  attendant  to  saddle  the  horset,  and  mounting 
one,  and  bidding  him  follow  on  the  other,  she  set 
off  to  the  county  town.  There  she  found  great 
numbers  of  Friends  surrounding  the  prison  with 
baskets  of  provisions,  bedding,  warm  clothing,  and 
fuel,  begging  for  admittance  to  their  perishing 
brethren.  Little  children,  too,  there  were,  weep- 
ing for  their  imprisoned  parents,  and  offering  their 
little  all  to  the  jailer,  so  that  they  might  be  per- 
mitted to  share  their  captivity.  JMary  made  her 
way  through  this  melancholy  crowd,  peremptorily 
demanded  access  to  the  jailer,  and  was  admitted, 
her  garb,  unlike  that  of  the  persecuted  Quakers, 
obtaining  for  her  this  favor,  as  at  the  house  of  the 
justice.  But  here  again  her  errand  debarred  her 
further  success ;  the  jailer  would  neither  allow 
her  to  see  her  friends  nor  would  he  convey  a  mes- 
sage to  them.  Mary  could  have  wept  in  anger  and 
vexation,  and  from  intense  sympathy  with  the  grief 
she  had  witnessed  outside  the  walls,  but  she  did 
not ;  she  retorted  upon  the  jailer  the  severity  of 


MARTHA    AND    MARY.  139 

his  manner,  and,  bidding  him  look  to  the  conse- 
quences, folded  her  cloak  round  her,  and  walked 
forth  again  into  the  circle  of  Friends  who  sur- 
rounded the  gate.  The  jailer  laughed  as  he  drew 
the  heavy  bolts  after  her,  and  bade  her  do  her 
worst. 

Among  the  Friends  collected  in  the  street  be- 
fore the  prison,  Mary  heard  that  William  Penn, 
who  had  just  returned  from  his  new  settlement  in 
America,  was  now  in  London.  As  soon  as  she 
heard  this,  she  determined  upon  her  plan  of  con- 
duct. She  knew  his  influence  with  the  king,  who, 
when  Duke  of  York,  had  induced  his  brother, 
Charles  II.,  to  bestow  on  him  that  tract  of  land  called 
Pennsylvania.  To  him,  therefore,  she  determined 
to  go,  and  pray  him  to  represent  to  the  king  the 
deplorable  sufferings  of  Friends  in  those  parts. 

When  her  old  attendant  heard  of  her  meditated 
journey,  he  looked  upon  her  as  almost  insane. 
To  him  the  project  was  appalling.  It  would  re- 
quire many  days  to  reach  London,  and  who  must 
take  charge  of  the  farm  in  his  absence,  seeing  his 
worthy  master  was  in  prison  ?  And  then,  too, 
though  he  had  been  willing  to  attend  her  as  far  as 
the  next  town,  would  it  be  right  for  a  young  maiden 
and  an  old  man  to  endanger  their  lives  by  so  long 
and  so  strange  a  journey  ? 

Mary  was  uninfluenced  by  his  reasoning,  nor 
was  she  to  be  daunted  by  his  fears.  "  If,"  she  said, 
"  he  would  not  accompany  her,  she  would  go 
alone."  She  bade  him,  therefore,  to  have  her 


140  MARTHA    AND    MARY. 

horse  saddled  by  break  of  day,  and  retired  to  her 
own  apartment,  to  prepare  for  the  journey. 

"  Of  a  surety,"  said  the  old  man  to  himself, 
"  she  is  a  wilful  young  thing." 

In  the  morning,  however,  she  found  not  only 
her  horse  prepared,  but  the  old  man  and  his  also ; 
for,  wilful  as  she  was,  the  old  man  loved  her ;  and, 
though  he  could  not  conjecture  the  object  of  so 
strange  a  journey,  "  he  would,"  he  said,  "  go  with 
her  to  the  end'  of  the  world." 

Mary  had  ventured  to  make  use  of  the  stores 
in  Walter  Pixley's  coffers,  for  she  considered 
the  lives  of  her  friends  were  at  stake.  She  was, 
therefore,  sufficiently  supplied  with  money  for  their 
journey. 

For  this  time  the  wild  gayety  of  Mary's  spirits 
was  gone,  but,  instead,  was  a  strong  energy  and 
determination  of  character,  which  supported  her 
above  fatigue,  or  the  apprehension  of  danger ;  and 
day  after  day,  from  town  to  town,  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  did  she  and  her  attendant  journey  onward. 
They  had  no  intercourse  with  travellers  on  the 
road,  nor  did  they  make  known  to  any  one  the  ob- 
ject of  their  journey. 

When  she  arrived  in  London,  she  went  straight 
to  the  house  where  William  Penn  had  his  tempo- 
rary residence,  and,  without  introduction,  apology, 
or  circumlocution,  laid  before  that  great  and  good 
man  the  sad  condition  of  her  suffering  friends. 
She  then  made  him  acquainted  with  her  own  pri- 
vate history,  her  obligations  to  the  family  of  the 


MARTHA    AND    MARY.  141 

worthy  Walter  Pixley,  and  the  anxiety  she  now  felt 
for  the  life  of  her  who  had  been  as  a  mother 
unto  her. 

William  Penn  heard  her  with  evident  emotion, 
and  promised  to  do  all  that  lay  in  his  power  for  her 
benefactors ;  though  he  assured  her  she  had  over- 
rated his  influence  with  the  king.  He  then  desired 
Mary  to  take  up  her  abode  under  his  roof;  and 
bidding  an  attendant  call  in  his  mistress,  he  gave 
her  into  the  hands  of  his  fair  and  gentle  wife, 
briefly  relating  to  her  upon  what  errand  the  young 
maiden  had  come. 

When  Mary  found  her  mission  thus  far  so  happily 
accomplished,  and  the  door  shut  upon  herself  and 
her  kind  hostess,  the  overstrained  energy  of  her 
spirit  for  a  moment  relaxed,  and  she  wept  like  a 
feeble  child.  The  fair  wife  of  William  Penn  un- 
derstood her  feelings,  soothed  her  with  sympathy, 
and  encouraged  her  to  open  her  heart  freely. 
Never  had  Mary  seen  goodness  so  graceful  and 
attractive  as  in  the  high-minded  and  gentle  being 
before  her.  Her  very  soul  blessed  her  as  she 
spoke ;  she  could  not  doubt  but  that  all  would  be 
well ;  and  with  her  heart  comforted,  assured,  and 
filled  with  gratitude,  it  seemed  as  if  a  new  life  had 
been  given  to  her. 

The  next  day  William  Penn  obtained  an  audi- 
ence of  the  king,  and  so  wrought  upon  him  by 
the  story  of  the  heroic  young  creature  under  his 
roof,  and  the  sufferings  of  her  friends,  that  he  de- 
sired she  might  be  brought,  before  him,  and  receive 


142  MARTHA    AND    MARY. 

from  his  own  hands  the  order  for  their  enlarge- 
ment. 

Mary  was  accordingly  arrayed  in  the  best  gar- 
ments her  scanty  wardrobe  permitted,  by  the 
elegant  and  gentle  hands  of  Guilelma  Penn,  who 
surveyed  her  beautiful  face  and  figure  with  admi- 
ration, and  then  kissed  her  and  blessed  her,  as  an 
affectionate  mother  might  bless  a  beloved  daughter. 

Leaning  upon  the  arm  of  her  protector,  she  was 
conducted  through  a  great  chamber  of  lords  and 
ladies,  assembled  for  the  occasion,  into  the  pres- 
ence of  his  majesty.  Mary's  heart  beat  violently, 
as  her  companion,  drawing  her  arm  from  his,  pre- 
sented her  to  his  sovereign,  who  graciously  bade 
her  speak  her  wishes  without  fear.  Reassured  by 
the  kindness  of  the  king's  manner,  almost  forget- 
ting the  presence  in  which  she  stood,  for  what 
seemed  to  her  the  greater  importance  of  her  er- 
rand, she  made  her  petition  gracefully  and  well. 
She  related  all  she  had  told  William  Penn  of  the 
great  kindness  of  the  Pixleys  to  her,  and  her  other- 
wise desolate  condition;  she  told  of  their  domestic 
virtues,  of  their  piety,  and  their  firm  loyalty ;  and 
lastly,  of  their  wretched  condition  in  the  jail,  with 
that  of  many  others  ;  and  of  the  cruelty  of  the 
justice  and  the  jailer;  and  then,  almost  uncon- 
sciously falling  on  her  knees,  she  prayed  so  elo- 
quently that  they  might  be  released,  that  the  king 
turned  aside  to  wipe  away  a  tear  before  he  put 
forth  his  hand  to  raise  her. 

The  petition  was  granted.     The  king  himself 


MARTHA    AND    MARY.  143 

put  into  her  hands  the  order  for  their  release,  and 
then,  praying  God  might  bless  her,  and  taking  leave 
of  William  Penn  very  kindly,  passed  out  of  the 
presence-chamber.  Many  of  the  lords  accom- 
panied the  king,  but  the  rest,  closing  around  the 
almost  terrified  maiden,  overwhelmed  her  with 
compliments.  William  Penn,  who  saw  her  confu- 
sion, apologized  for  her  with  all  the  grace  of  a 
courtier,  and  extricating  her  from  the  admiring 
company,  conveyed  her,  like  a  being  walking  in  a 
dream,  to  his  own  house. 

Not  a  moment  was  lost  in  sending  down  by  ex- 
press the  order  for  the  Friends'  enlargement,  and, 
together  with  that,  a  dismissal  from  his  office  for 
the  jailer.  Rest  was  now  absolutely  necessary  for 
Mary,  after  those  extraordinary  exertions  ;  William 
Penn  detained  her,  therefore,  a  few  days  under  his 
roof,  and  then  conveyed  her  himself  in  his  own 
comfortable  carriage  to  the  house  of  her  friends. 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  joy  which  her  re- 
turn afforded,  and  which  was  not  a  little  increased 
by  the  presence  of  her  illustrious  companion. 

The  troubles  and  persecutions  of  the  Pixleys 
here  came  to  an  end,  for  they  went  over  to  Penn- 
sylvania with  its  distinguished  founder,  on  his  re- 
turn, and  became  noted  among  the  most  worthy 
and  influential  of  the  settlers  there.  Mary,  how- 
ever, returned  to  England,  being  affluently  married ; 
and  I  myself,  several  years  ago,  was  possessed  of  a 
piece  of  needle-work  said  to  have  been  of  her 
doinor 


* 

A  COTTAGE  MEMOIR. 


ELIZABETH  BROWN,  or,  as  she  was  always  called 
at  home,  Bessy,  was  ten  years  old  when  we  shall 
first  introduce  her  to  our  readers.  She  could  at 
this  time  knit,  sew,  and  read ;  she  could  also  write 
a  little,  and  cast  accounts  rather  less  —  in  fact, 
she  could  just  add  an  easy  addition  sum,  and  tell 
how  many  farthings  make  a  penny,  how  many  pence 
a  shilling,  and  how  many  shillings  a  guinea,  a 
pound,  or  a  sovereign.  She  knew,  moreover,  the 
church  catechism,  the  ten  commandments,  the 
Lord's  prayer,  a  few  hymns,  and  a  few  songs,  the 
names  and  order  of  the  twelve  months,  the  number 
of  days  in  a  year,  and  that  she  was  born  in  the 
year  1815 ;  and  consequently,  in  the  year  1825, 
the  time  at  which  we  are  arrived,  she  was  ten 
years  old. 

With  this  small  stock  of  learning,  she  was  never- 
theless a  happy  child,  and  was  tractable  and  useful 
in  her  father's  house.  She  could  wash  the  floor, 
prepare  the  small  meals  of  the  family,  put  the 
dinner  things  aside,  rub  the  tables  and  chairs,  and 
then  carry  out  the  baby  into  the  sunshiny  fields, 
without  endangering  it  in  either  life  or  limb.  She 


A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR.  145 

was  a  great  help  to  her  mother,  who,  when  fretted 
by  having  to  provide  for  a  large  family,  out  of  the 
scanty  earnings  of  her  husband,  a  laboring  man, 
used  sometimes  to  scold  her  for  playing  at  hop- 
scotch and  burn-ball  with  the  neighboring  children, 
when  she  wanted  her  to  mend  stockings  and  nurse 
the  baby ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  she  internally  ad- 
mitted her  good  little  daughter's  usefulness,  and 
often  said  to  herself,  that  she  should  be  at  her  wits' 
end  without  the  help  of  little  Bessy. 

Bessy  was  a  strong  girl  of  her  age,  rather  robust 
than  tall,  and  was  brown  with  being  exposed  to  all 
weathers;  her  hair  was  parted  in  front,  and  put 
behind  her  ears,  and  turned  up  behind  into  a  little 
knot  with  a  sixpenny  comb  which  she  had  bought 
at  the  last  fair.  She  wore  dark  cotton  frocks, 
made  up  to  the  neck,  but  with  short  sleeves, 
because  her  mother  said  it  saved  stuff,  and  was 
more  convenient  for  washing  and  cleaning ;  ex- 
cepting, however,  her  Sunday  frock,  of  smart  pink 
and  green  print,  which  had  long  ones,  and  in 
which  Bessy  felt  herself  in  full  dress.  She  wore  a 
stuff  petticoat,  black  worsted  stockings,  and  thick 
shoes  ;  indeed,  she  was  the  pattern  of  a  tidy,  little 
old  woman.  When  she  went  to  the  town,  she  had 
on  a  black  bonnet,  made  out  of  an  old  mode  cloak 
of  her  grandmother's,  and  a  cotton  shawl,  in  which 
she  folded  her  gloveless  arms.  She  could  make  a 
very  good  bargain  for  potatoes,  but  with  the  pur- 
chase of  the  little  piece  of  meat  intended  for  the 
Sunday  dinner,  she  was  not  intrusted,  being,  as 
13 


146  A    COTTAGE    MliMOIli. 

her  mother  said,  too  young  and  too  inexperienced 
to  be  employed  in  a  matter  of  such  importance. 
She,  however,  bought  the  flour,  and  made  the  bread, 
which  was  an  accomplishment  she  took  as  much 
pride  in  as  many  a  fashionable  young  lady  does  in 
the  execution  of  a  difficult  piece  of  music,  or  the 
painting  of  a  smart  pair  of  hand-screens ;  and  this 
bread  she  carried  to  the  bakehouse  and  fetched 
back  again ;  and  soon  grew  a  connoisseur  in 
loaves,  and  could  tell  at  a  glance  which  would  be 
light  and  which  heavy,  and  which,  like  her  own, 
would  be  very  excellent  bread  indeed. 

People  who  were  out  early  in  a  morning  used 
to  see  Bessy  Brown  with  her  frock  pinned  up,  in  a 
pair  of  pattens,  with  a  little  canvass  apron,  mop- 
ping the  red  bricks  of  the  floor,  and  the  pavement 
before  their  cottage  door.  About  half  past  twelve 
she  was  again  outside  the  door,  but  at  the  end 
of  the  house  by  a  bench  under  the  great  pear-tree, 
with  a  round  iron  pot  filled  with  hot  water,  and  a 
wooden  lid,  with  a  nail  driven  into  it  for  a  handle, 
standing  beside  her,  washing  up  the  dinner  things. 
In  an  afternoon,  which  was  Bessy's  holiday  time, 
she  might  be  seen  wandering  out  with  the  baby 
in  her  arms,  in  its  cotton  bonnet  and  blue  hand- 
kerchief, into  the  pleasant  fields,  gathering  butter- 
cups and  daisies  for  her  little  charge,  or  blackberries 
for  herself;  or  else  sitting  on  the  grass,  or  at  the 
house  door,  singing,  and  talking,  and  putting  her- 
self into  all  sorts  of  odd,  entertaining  attitudes,  to 
amuse  the  infant ;  and  then  again  in  an  evening, 


A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR.  147 

when  it  was  wearied  out,  she  rocked  it  to  sleep, 
and  gave  it  to  the  mother  for  the  night,  or  else,  as 
it  grew  older,  took  it  to  her  own  little  bed,  and, 
even  in  her  deep  and  healthy  slumbers,  watched 
over  it  with  a  love  as  true  and  tender  as  that  of  a 
mother. 

One  day  of  Bess's  life  was  a  sample  of  her  days 
for  four  years  ;  for,  as  one  baby  grew  into  a  chubby 
child,  that  ran  about  independently  and  amused 
itself,  another  little  brother  or  sister  succeeded  to 
his  place,  and  kept  her  always  nursing.  But  when 
she  was  fourteen  years  old,  her  mother  began  to 
think  it  was  time  that  Bessy  was  earning  her  own 
living ;  and,  as  her  next  daughter  was  growing  up, 
and  was  able  to  take  Bessy's  place  in  the  house, 
she  began  to  inquire  if  any  family  in  the  neigh- 
borhood wanted  a  tidy  girl,  to  help  in  the  kitchen 
or  take  care  of  a  child. 

There  seemed  something  very  pleasant  and  in- 
dependent to  the  little  girl's  mind,  at  first,  in  the 
idea  of  going  to  service  :  she  thought  of  the  wages 
she  should  get,  of  the  things  she  should  buy  ;  talked 
of  it  all  day,  and  dreamed  of  it  all  night.  At 
length  a  place  was  found  —  she  was  to  be  little 
nurse-maid,  at  the  Green  Dragon,  in  her  native 
village. 

Her  mother  thought  that  they  would  see  Bessy 
very  often,  and  how  they  should  pass  the  door  every 
Sunday,  as  they  went  to  church ;  and  beside,  Mrs. 
Martin  was  reckoned  a  very  good  sort  of  woman, 
and  would,  she  did  not  doubt,  prove  a  kind 


148  A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR. 

mistress  ;  and  the  baby,  though  a  great,  heavy  boy, 
to  be  sure,  had  a  little  yellow  coach  to  ride  in,  and 
Bessy  could  draw  him  up  the  road  to  their  cottage, 
as  well  as  any  other  way,  and  might  perhaps  meet 
her  father,  or  one  of  her  brothers,  and  they  should 
thus  have  a  chance  of  news  of  her  during  the 
week.  And,  though  the  landlord  of  the  Green 
Dragon  was  a  stern  man,  a  very  dragon  himself  in 
temper,  it  was  well  known  that  Mrs.  Martin  had 
the  management  of  the  whole  establishment,  in- 
cluding men  and  maids  ;  and,  therefore,  poor  Mrs. 
Brown  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  very  well  for 
a  first  place,  as  times  went. 

It  was  accordingly  agreed  upon  by  all  parties. 
Although  Bessy's  aspirings  were  a  little  humbled, 
in  living  only  at  the  Green  Dragon,  instead  of  the 
parsonage,  or  at  the  'squire's,  as  she  had  hoped, 
she  tried  to  fancy  it  would  be  very  grand  to  see  the 
mail-coach  stop  every  morning  with  all  its  fine 
passengers,  and  its  four  fine  horses.  On  the 
Monday  morning,  therefore,  it  was  fixed  that  she 
was  to  go. 

Her  poor  mother  had  laid  out  all  the  money  she 
could  save,  ever  since  it  was  concluded  that  Bessy 
was  to  go  to  service,  in  completing  her  little  ward- 
robe for  the  last  time  ;  — in  future  she  must  supply 
it  herself  from  her  own  earnings.  Her  few  clothes 
were  put  in  good  repair,  and  her  heart  was  made 
to  overflow  with  gratitude,  by  one  present  from 
her  poor  mother,  who  felt  more  regret  in  parting 
with  her  good  little  daughter  than  she  chose  to 


A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR.  149 

express  —  and  that  present  was  her  own  white 
dimity  petticoat !  —  that  beautiful  garment,  as 
Bessy  thought,  which  her  mother  wore  and  washed 
once  in  a  summer,  to  keep  it  a  good  color ;  and 
in  which  she  was  married  !  — the  first  white  petti- 
coat Bessy  ever  had  possessed,  and  which  was 
tucked  up  and  altered  for  her  own  wear  :  poor 
Bessy  was  grateful,  even  to  tears.  All  her  clothes 
were  neatly  put  up  in  a  small  oaken  chest,  which, 
together  with  a  prayer-book,  was  her  father's 
present ;  and  on  Sunday  evening  they  sat  down  to 
take  their  last  meal  all  together  —  at  least  for 
some  time. 

This  first  going  out  to  service  is  a  great  event 
in  the  life  of  the  poor  ;  the  rich  have  nothing  like 
it.  It  is  a  practical  going  forth  of  a  young  creature 
to  seek  her  fortune,  and  often  a  very  hard  fortune 
it  turns  out ;  and  Bessy,  though  a  stout-hearted 
girl,  felt  some  natural  misgivings  of  spirit,  as  to- 
morrow, with  its  untried  life,  stood  before  her,  at 
the  distance  of  but  a  few  hours.  Much  was  the 
good  counsel  given  to  her  by  her  simple-hearted 
parents,  this  evening ;  and  many  the  warnings 
drawn  from  the  experience  of  her  mother,  who 
herself  had  lived  fourteen  years  in  various  ser- 
vices. The  supper  things  stood  long  unmoved 
from  the  little  table,  before  Bessy  could  find 
courage  to  put  them  away,  as  she  said  to  herself, 
"  for  the  last  time." 

Her  sleep  this  night  was  less  profound  than  usual ; 
and,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  since  the  baby 
13* 


150  A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR. 

died,  she  awoke  with  a  depression  of  spirits.  Long 
and  tearful  was  the  leave-taking  between  her  and 
her  mother  and  the  little  ones,  before  she  had  the 
courage  to  follow  her  father,  who,  laden  with  her 
worldly  possessions,  was  waiting  to  accompany  her 
to  the  Green  Dragon  —  to  conduct  her,  as  it 
were,  across  the  threshold  on  her  entrance  into 
life. 

Bessy's  first  place  was  a  very  hard  one.  The 
child  was  cross,  heavy,  and  spoiled ;  she  had  to 
nurse  him,  to  obey  the  petulant,  fat  landlord,  and 
to  wait  on  the  impatient  Mrs.  Martin  and  her 
twenty  guests  at  the  same  moment.  The  child 
would  not  be  drawn  up  the  road  in  his  yellow 
coach,  nor  would  Mrs.  Martin  allow  her  to  speak 
to  her  parents  at  the  door,  as  they  passed  on  their 
way  to  church.  Poor  girl  !  she  began  to  think 
service  was  very  hard,  and  to  remember,  with 
almost  painful  pleasure,  the  happy  days  of  wander- 
ing in  the  fields  with  her  good  little  baby  brother, 
when  she  used  to  peep  into  birds'  nests  and  gather 
blackberries.  Many  a  time  did  she  cry  herself  to 
sleep  ;  but  then  she  remembered  that  her  mother's 
first  service  had  been  hard  also ;  that  she  lived  with 
a  mistress  who  had  even  beaten  her,  and,  therefore, 
she  supposed  it  was  all  in  the  order  of  things  for 
"  first  places"  to  be  bad  ones,  and  she  endured  her 
troubles  without  complaint 

Bessy,  however,  staid  only  twelve  months  at  the 
Green  Dragon.  She  had  been  seen  by  the  draper 
of  the  next  town,  as,  in  making  his  round  among 


A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR.  151 

his  country  customers,  he  had  stopped  at  the  Green 
Dragon,  and  had  recommended  her  to  his  wife  as 
the  neatest,  quickest-handed  little  maiden  he  had 
ever  seen.  Therefore,  when  she  was  out  of  place, 
she  was  hired  by  the  lady  in  question,  as  an  attend- 
ant upon  her  smart  little  daughter,  just  turned 
three  years  of  age. 

But,  in  the  twelve  months  of  Bessy's  hard  ser- 
vitude, she  had  gone  through  a  useful  discipline  ; 
she  had  strengthened  her  mind  by  patience  and  for- 
bearance, and  her  unparticipated  sorrows,  if  for  a 
time  they  had  made  her  a  sadder,  had  in  the  end 
assuredly  made  her  a  wiser  girl:  She  had  also 
grown  much  taller  and  fairer,  and  had  altogether  a 
more  trim,  cultivated  look.  Her  small  wages  had 
been  laid  out  in  the  supplying  her  wardrobe  with 
better  apparel ;  her  hair  had  lost  its  sun-burnt  look, 
had  now  grown  long,  and  was  put  up  with- some 
degree  of  taste,  and  she  wore  long-sleeved  gowns 
in  an  afternoon,  and  white  cotton  stockings  on  a 
Sunday.  Bessy  was  certainly  bidding  fair  to  be  a 
very  comely  young  maiden. 

She  lived  at  the  draper's  for  four  years ;  and 
then  she  was  nineteen  years  old,  arid  wore  caps 
and  frills,  and  had  a  silk  shawl,  a  variety  of  printed 
gowns,  and  blue  ribands  in  her  bonnet ;  besides 
this,  she  had  four  pounds  in  money  saved  out  of 
her  earnings,  a  smart  red  leather  housewife,  a  paper 
work-box,  and  a  silver  thimble.  Poor  Bessy !  she 
began  to  feel  how  pleasant  it  was  to  have  some 
little  property  of  her  own.  After  she  had  lived 


152 


A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR. 


four  years  at  the  draper's,  Miss  Mary  Ann  was 
sent  to  a  boarding-school,  and  her  services  were 
no  longer  wanted  either  to  accompany  the  little 
girl  in  her  walks,  or  to  get  up  her  white  muslin 
dresses  when  they  were  washed  ;  Bessy  was  there- 
fore again  out  of  place. 

This  latter,  unlike  Bessy's  first  situation,  had 
been  one  of  comparative  ease;  for  her  mistress, 
who  loved  and  lived  in  all  bodily  comforts  herself, 
took  care  that  her  servants,  were  it  only  for  the 
credit  of  the  house,  should  not  have  great  cause 
of  complaint;  nevertheless,  she  was  a  cross-tem- 
pered, exact  woman,  and  her  servants  obeyed  her  as 
much  in  fear  as  love.  Still  Bessy  always  thought 
herself  extre'mely  well  off:  she  had  been  indulged 
with  a  journey  to  the  sea-side  when  her  mistress 
and  Miss  Mary  Ann  went  there  for  the  benefit  of 
sea-bathing,  and  had  always  the  reputation  of  being 
a  favorite  in  the  family.  Occasional  troubles,  it  is 
true,  Bessy  had,  but  these  left  no  unpleasant  memo- 
ries behind  ;  and  she  parted  from  her  mistress  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  a  true  sorrow  at  her  heart : 
in  return  she  received,  as  a  parting  present,  a  gown 
of  one  of  the  best  prints  in  her  master's  shop. 

When,  on  leaving  this  place,  Bessy  paid  a  visit 
to  her  parents,  and,  in  her  very  best  apparel,  —  a 
tall  and  comely  young  woman,  —  made  her  first  ap- 
pearance at  church,  all  her  old  companions  looked 
upon  her  as  a  person  whose  acquaintance  would 
be  very  creditable  to  them.  Her  mother,  too,  with 
a  very  pardonable  pride,  when  the  service  was  over, 


A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR.  153 

stopped  on  purpose  that  the  clergyman  and  his  wife 
might  see  her.  A  proud  and  happy  woman  was 
she,  when  they  acknowledged  her  deepcourtsey  and 
that  of  the  daughter,  with  a  very  gracious  smile, 
of  which  she  gave  half  the  credit  to  Bessy's  re- 
spectable appearance.  The  'squire's  lady,  too, 
waited  to  see  them  pass,  and  then  turned  and 
spoke  to  her  handsome  daughter,  something  which 
Mrs.  Brown  was  sure,  in  her  own  mind,  was  to 
Bessy's  advantage ;  and  the  poor  woman  walked 
home,  the  happiest  mother  in  the  whole  congrega- 
tion. "  I  always  thought  she  would  be  a  credit  to 
us,"  she  said  to  herself;  "  such  a  tidy,  notable 
girl!  —  I  hope  Mary,  and  Jane,  and  little  Sarah, 
will  turn  out  as  well !  " 

The  next  day,  to  the  great  joy  of  Bessy's  mother, 
the  clergyman's  pony-chaise  stopped  at  their  cot- 
tage door,  and  in  a  few  minutes  his  lady  entered, 
to  make  inquiries  respecting  her.  If  she  could 
have  a  good  character  from  her  last  place,  she  said, 
she  could  offer  her  a  situation,  in  her  own  family. 
Bessy's  good  conscience  assured  her,  in  a  moment, 
all  would  be  right;  and  blushing,  and  full  of  ill- 
concealed  joy,  she  thanked  the  kind  lady  for  the 
X)ffer  a  thousand  times.  A  favorable  character  was 
soon  received  from  her  late  mistress,  and  in  two 
weeks'  time  the  dream  of  Bessy's  childhood  was 
realized,  and  she  and  her  personal  property,  now 
occupying  two  tolerably  large  paper  trunks,  beside 
the  little  oaken  chest  before  mentioned,  were  re- 
moved to  the  beautiful  parsonage.  Here  she  lived 


154 


A    COTTAGE    MEMOIR. 


five  years,  a  happy  and  respectable  servant,  fulfil- 
ling every  duty,  and  with  a  conscience  void  of  of- 
fence ;  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  only  left  it  to 
be  married  to  her  fellow-servant,  the  gardener, 
as  steady  arid  industrious  a  young  man  as  even 
Mrs.  Brown  herself  could  desire  for  her  dutiful 
daughter. 


THE  HONEST  DUTCHMAN. 


IT  came  to  pass,  in  the  days  of  old,  that  the  men 
of  Holland  found  themselves  straitened  in  their 
habitations ;  for  who  knows  not  that  they  were, 
from  the  first,  a  sober,  hardy,  and  industrious  race, 
tilling  the  ground,  buying  and  selling,  eating  and 
drinking  in  humility  1  and  therefore  they  lived  to  a 
good  old  age,  and  "  sent  forth  their  little  ones  like 
a  flock,  and  their  children  danced ;  "  so  that,  their 
land  being  small,  they  filled  it  brimful  of  inhabit- 
ants, till  they  were  ready  to  overflow  all  its  borders. 
And  they  looked  this  way,  and  that  way,  and  they 
said,  "  What  shall  we  do?  for  the  people  are  many, 
and  the  land  is  small,  and  we  are  much  straitened 
for  room?"  So  they  called  together  the  chief 
men  of  their  nation,  and  they  held  a  great  council, 
to  consider  what  they  must  do.  And,  behold,  there 
arose  amongst  them  a  man  unlike  the  men  of  the 
land ;  for  they  were  short,  and  broad,  and  well- 
formed  in  body,  of  a  solemn  and  quiet  counte- 
nance, and  clad  in  peaceable  garments;  but  he 
was  tall,  and  bony,  and  of  a  grim  and  hairy  aspect. 
He  had  a  great,  hard  hand,  and  a  fiercQ  eye ;  his 
clothes  had  a  wild  look ;  he  had '  a  sword  by  his 


156  THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN. 

side,,  a  spear  in  his  grasp,  and  his  name  was  Van 
Manslaughter. 

With  a  glad,  but  a  savage  gaze,  he  looked  round 
upon  the  assembly,  and  said,  "  Fellow  citizens !  I 
marvel  at  your  perplexity.  You  sit  quietly  at  home, 
and  know  nothing  of  the  world ;  but  I  and  my  fol- 
lowers have  pursued  the  deer  and  the  boar  far  away 
into  the  forests  of  Germany.  We  have  fought 
with  the  wolf  and  the  bear,  and,  if  need  were, 
with  the  men  of  the  woods ;  and  enjoy  our  hunt- 
ing, and  to  eat  of  our  prey  with  joy  and  jollity. 
Why  sit  ye  here  in  a  crowd,  like  sheep  penned  in 
a  fold  ?  We  have  seen  the  land  that  is  next  to 
ours,  and  we  have  been  through  it  to  the  length  of 
it,  and  to  the  breadth  of  it,  and  it  is  a  good  land. 
There  are  corn  and  wine ;  there  are  cities,  towns, 
and  villages  ready  built  to  our  hands.  Let  us  arise 
and  come  suddenly  upon  them,  and  we  shall  not 
only  get  all  these  possessions,  but  we  shall  get 
great  glory."  And  when  he  l^d  so  said,  he  looked 
round  him  with  much  exultation,  and  a  crowd  of 
dark,  hairy  faces  behind  him  cried  out,  "  Ay,  it  is 
true  !  Let  us  arise  and  get  great  glory  !  " 

But  at  that  word,  there  stood  up  Mynheer  Kinder- 
mann,  an  old  man, —  a  very  old  man.  He  was  of 
low  stature,  of  a  stout,  broad  frame,  and  his  hair, 
which  was  very  white,  hung  down  upon  his  shoul- 
ders: and  his  beard  also,  as  white  as  driven  snow, 
fell  reverently  upon  his  breast.  That  old  man  had 
a  large  and  tranquil  countenance;  his  features 
were  bold,  and  of  a  very  healthful  complexion ; 


THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN.  157 

his  face,  though  of  a  goodly  breadth,  was  of  a 
striking  length,  for  his  forehead  was  bold  and  high, 
and  his  eyes  had  a  pleasant  fire-side  expression,  as 
though  he  had  been  used  only  to  behold  his  chil- 
dren and  his  children's  children  at  their  play,  or  to 
fix  them  on  the  loving  forms  of  his  wife  or  his 
friend.  As  he  arose,  there  was  a  great  silence,  and 
he  stood  and  sighed  ;  and  those  who  were  near 
him  heard  him  mutter,  in  a  low  tone,  the  word 
"Glory,"  but  those  afar  off  only  saw  his  lips  move. 
Then  he  said  aloud,  "  My  brethren !  I  am  glad 
that  you  are  called  upon  to  get  great  glory ;  but 
what  is  that  glory  to  which  Mynheer  Van  Man- 
slaughter calls  you  ?  In  my  youth,  as  some  of  you 
well  know,  I  travelled  far  and  wide  with  my  mer- 
chandise; I  have  sojourned  in  all  the  countries 
that  adjoin  ours,  and  they  are  truly  good  countries, 
and  full  of  people  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  It  is  not 
people  that  we  lack ;  it  is  land  ;  and  I  should  like 
to  know  how  we  are  to  take  this  land,  that  is  full 
of  people,  and  yet  do  those  people  no  wrong !  If 
we  go  to  take  that  land,  we  shall  find  the  people 
ready  to  defend  their  homes  and  their  children  ; 
and  if  we  fight  in  a  bad  cause,  we  shall  probably  get 
beaten,  like  thieves  and  robbers,  for  our  pains ;  — 
and  is  that  glory  ?  But  if  we  are  able  to  take  that 
land,  we  must  first  kill  or  drive  out  those  that  cul- 
tivate it,  and  make  it  fit  to  live  in  ;  —  and  is  that 
glory?  And  if  we  take  those  cities,  and  towns, 
and  villages,  we  must  kill  those  who  built  them,  or 
have  lived  pleasantly  in  them,  with  God's  blessing. 
14 


158  THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN. 

O!  what  honest,  inoffensive  men,  what  good, 
kind-hearted  mothers,  what  sweet  and  tender 
brothers  and  sisters,  what  dear  little  babes  we  must 
murder  and  destroy,  or  drive  away  from  their  warm 
homes,  which  God  has  given  them,  and  which  are 
almost  as  dear  to  them  as  their  lives,  into  the  dis- 
mal forests,  to  perish  with  cold  and  hunger,  or  to 
be  devoured  by  wild  beasts,  and,  in  their  anguish, 
to  curse  us  before  the  Great  Father  who  made  us 
all !  My  brethren,  I  cannot  think  that  is  glory, 
but  great  disgrace  and  infamy,  and  a  misery  that, 
I  trust,  shall  never  come  upon  us. 

"  I  have  long  looked  about  me,  and  I  see  that 
Heaven  has  given  all  those  countries  round  us  to 
whom  he  would,  and  they  are  full  of  people;  they 
are  full  of  rich  fields  and  vineyards ;  they  are  full 
of  towns  for  men,  and  temples  for  God ;  they  are 
full  of  warm,  bright,  happy  homes,  where  there 
are  proud  fathers,  and  glad  mothers,  and  innocent 
children,  as  amongst  ourselves  j^ind  cursed  be  he 
who  would  disturb  or  injure  them. 

"  But,  my  brethren,  how  shall  we  get  glory  ?  and, 
what  is  of  more  immediate  necessity,  how  shall  we 
get  land  to  live  in  ?  I  have  been  thinking  of  this, 
and  it  has  come  into  my  mind  that  it  has  been  too 
long  the  custom  for  men  to  call  themselves  warriors 
when  they  desire  to  be  murder ers,  and  to  invade 
the  property  and  the  lives  of  their  neighbors ;  and 
I  have  thought,  as  all  the  land  is  taken  up,  and  as 
we  cannot  without  great  sin  invade  the  land,  that 
we  had  better  invade  the  sea,  where  we  can  take, 


THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN.  159 

and  wrong  no  man.  And  who  does  not  know, 
that  has  looked  towards  the  sea,  that  there  is  much 
ground  which  seems  properly  to  belong  neither  to 
the  sea  nor  the  land?  Sometimes  it  is  covered 
with  the  waters,  and  sometimes  it  is  partly  bare, 
—  a  dreary,  slimy,  and  profitless  region,  inhabited 
only  by  voracious  crabs,  that  make  war  upon  one 
another,  — the  stronger  upon  the  weaker,  —  and 
sea-fowl,  which  come  in  like  conquerors  and  subdue 
them,  and  devour  them,  and  get  what  Van  Man- 
slaughter calls  '  great  glory.'  My  brethren,  let 
us  invade  the  sea,  —  let  us  get  piles,  and  beams, 
and  stones,  and  dig  up  the  earth,  and  make  a  large 
mound  which  will  shut  out  the  sea,  and  we  shall 
have  land  enough  and  to  spare." 

As  he  finished  his  speech,  there  arose  a  deep 
murmur,  that  grew  and  grew,  till  it  spread  among 
the  people  collected  in  thousands  without,  and  at 
length  became  like  the  sound  of  the  ocean  itself; 
and  then  the  people  cried  out,  "  Yes,  we  will  in- 
vade the  sea !  "  and  so  it  was  decreed.  Then 
began  they  with  axes  to  fell  wood  ;  with  levers  and 
mattocks  to  wrench  up  stones ;  and  with  wagons, 
horses,  and  oxen,  to  lead  them  to  the  sea.  Now, 
it  being  the  time  of  low  water,  and  the  tide  being 
gone  down  very  far,  they  began  to  dig  up  the  earth, 
and  to  make  a  mighty  bank.  So  when  the  sea 
came  up  again,  it  saw  the  bank  and  the  people 
upon  it  in  great  numbers ;  but  it  took  no  notice 
thereof.  And  it  went  down,  and  came  up  again, 
and  they  had  pushed  out  the  bank  still  further,  and 


160  THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN. 

raised  it  higher,  and  secured  it  with  beams,  and  piles, 
and  huge  stones,  and  it  began  to  wonder.  And  it 
went  down,  and  came  up  again,  and  they  had  pushed 
the  bank  still  further,  so  that,  in  great  amaze, 
it  said  within  itself,  <4  What  are  these  little  insig- 
nificant creatures  doing  ?  Some  great  scheme  is 
in  their  heads,  but  I  wot  not  what ;  and  one  of 
these  days  I  will  come  up  and  overturn  their  banks 
and  sweep  both  it  and  them  away  together."  But, 
at  length,  as  it  came  up  once  on  a  time,  it  beheld 
that  the  bank  was  finished.  It  stretched  across 
from  land  to  land,  and  the  sea  was  entirely  shut 
out.  Then  was  it  filled  with  wonder  that  such 
little  creatures  had  done  so  amazing  a  deed  ;  and 
with  great  indignation  that  they  had  presumed  to 
interrupt  the  progress  of  itself — the  mighty  sea, 
which  stretched  round  the  whole  world,  and  was 
the  greatest  moving  thing  in  it.  Retreating  in 
fury,  it  collected  all  its  strength,  and  came  with  all 
its  billows,  and  struck  the  bank  in  the  midst  as 
with  thunder.  In  a  moment  there  appeared  on 
the  top  of  the  mound,  on  the  whole  length  of  it, 
a  swarm  of  little  stout  men,  thick  as  a  swarm  of 
bees.  Marvellous  was  it  to  see  how  that  throng 
of  little  creatures  was  all  astir,  running  here,  and 
running  there  ;  stopping  up  crevices,  and  repair- 
ing damages  done  by  that  vast  and  tremendous 
enemy,  that,  roaring  and  foaming,  repeated  its 
blows  like  the  strokes  of  a  million  of  battering- 
rams,  till  the  faces  of  the  men  were  full  of  fear, 
and  they  said,  "  Surely  the  mound  will  fall !  " 


THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN,  161 

Then  came  the  sea,  swelling  and  raging  more 
dreadfully  than  ever,  and,  urged  by  the  assistance 
of  a  mighty  wind,  it  thundered  against  the  bank 
and  burst  it !  The  waters  flowed  triumphantly 
over  all  their  old  places,  and  many  men  perished. 

Then  went  Van  Manslaughter  amongst  the 
people  with  great  joy,  and  many  loud  words,  say- 
ing, "  See  what  has  come  of  despising  my  counsel ! 
See  what  glory  your  old  counsellor  has  brought 
you  to !  Come  now,  follow  me,  and  I  will  lead 
you  to  possessions  where  you  need  not  fear  the 
sea.  Let  us  leave  it  to  people  this  bog  with  fish. 
I  am  for  no  new-fangled  schemes,  but  for  the  good 
old  /plan  of  fair  and  honorable  war,  which  has 
been  the  highway  to  wealth  and  glory  from  the 
beginning  of  the  world." 

Then  began  the  people  to  be  very  sad,  and  to 
listen  to  his  words ;  but  Mynheer  Kindermann 
called  them  again  to  him,  and  bid  them  be  of  good 
heart,  and  to  repair  the  bank ;  to  make  it  strong- 
er, and  to  build  towers  upon  it,  and  to  appoint 
men  to  dwell  in  them,  that  they  might  continually 
watch  over  and  strengthen  it.  So  the  people  took 
courage  and  did  so  ;  for  they  said,  "  Let  us  take 
no  man's  goods,  and  let  us  do  no  murder."  There- 
fore they  renewed  the  mound,  and  the  sea  came 
up  in  tenfold  wrath,  and  smote  it  worse  than  be- 
fore ;  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  It  failed  not,  save  a 
little  here  and  there  ;  and  the  people,  seeing  it,  set 
up  a  great  shout,  and  cried,  "  The  mound  will 
stand ! " 

14* 


162  THE    HONEST    DUTCHMAN. 

Then  did  they  begin  to  dig  and  drain,  to  plant 
trees,  to  build  towns,  and  to  lay  out  gardens ;  and 
it  became  a  beautiful  country.  Then  the  inhabit- 
ants rejoiced,  saying,  "  Others  have  invaded  lands 
and  killed  people,  but  we  have  hurt  no  man.  We 
have  only  invaded  the  sea,  and  Heaven  has  made 
us  out  of  it  a  goodly  heritage  !  " 

These  are  the  people  whose  wealth  and  indus- 
try are  known  through  the  whole  world.  They 
have  sent  out  colonies  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  have  got  themselves  the  name  of  the  Honest 
Dutchmen:  Would  that  they  had  always  been  as 
wise  and  merciful  as  they  were  on  that  day ! 

W.  H. 


THE  TALE  OF  A  TRIANGLE* 


PART   1. 

HOW     EVIL     WAS     DONE     THAT     GOOD    MIGHT     COME 
OF    IT. 

AT  a  great  public  school,  conducted  by  the 
learned  Dr.  Reader,  and  many  ushers  and  masters 
of  many  varieties  and  branches  of  knowledge, 
there  were  three  notable  boys  —  the  tallest  boy 
in  the  school,  the  least  boy  in  the  school,  and  the 
fattest  boy  in  the  school,  —  Charles,  Harry,  and 
George,  —  who,  from  their  remarkable  names  of 
Salmon,  Lion,  and  Sparrow,  were  jestingly  called 
Fish,  Flesh,  and  Fowl.  They  had  nomen,  preno- 
men,  and  cognomen.  Charles  was  also  called 
King,  because  he  was  above  his  fellows;  Harry, 
Lord,  because  he  possessed  the  fat  of  the  land ; 
and  George,  Commons,  because  of  his  spare  per- 
son and  somewhat  meagre  aspect.  Others  again 
distinguished  them  as  Thread-paper,  Apple-dump- 
ling, and  Lean  Kine.  They,  however,  there  being 
a  sworn  league  of  amity  amongst  them,  had  given 
themselves  the  title  of  "  The  Triangle  :  "  we, 


164  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

therefore,  will  adopt  their  own  appellation,  and 
thus  style  them.  So  much  for  their  names. 

Now,  the  Triangle,  besides  their  remarkable  exte- 
riors, possessed  rare  accomplishments ;  they  were 
the  b'est  sliders,  kite-flyers,  top-spinners,  and  crick- 
eters, in  the  school.  They  had,  moreover,  each 
his  own  peculiar  gift,  which  was  exercised  for 
general  edification.  Charles  Salmon,  the  tall  boy, 
had  a  wonderful  talent  for  singing  ;  his  voice  was 
clear,  melodious,  and  full  of  power  and  expression, 
and  his  performances  in  this  way  often  electrified 
the  whole  play-ground,  when  the  learned  head  of 
Dr.  Reader  himself,  in  his  white  wig,  had  been 
seen  popping  out  of  the  study-window,  with  an  air 
of  abstraction,  or  else  nodding  time  to  the  tune, 
while  it  was  very  shrewdly  conjectured,  especially 
by  those  who  had  seen  them,  that  many  an  usher 
likewise  sought  out  such  commodious  nooks  and 
corners,  as  would  give  him  the  melody  without 
making  him  visible  to  the  urchin  crew  over  whom 
he  exercised  authority. 

Henry  Lion,  the  lean  boy,  was  a  prodigious 
mimic,  and  acted  with  inimitable  humor  every 
whimsical  character  from  Punch  to  Sir  John  Fal- 
staff,  to  whom,  however,  he  was  in  bulk  a  singular 
contrast.  Nevertheless,  he  contrived,  by  some 
cunning  of  his  own,  to  swell  himself  forth,  and 
appear  no  Jack  Straw  in  the  performance. 

The  talent  of  George  Sparrow  was  that  of  tale- 
telling.  A  very  Scheherazade  was  he  in  this  ac- 
complishment. Grave  or  gay,  horrible,  fantastical 


THE    TALE    OF   A   TRIANGLE.  165 

or  pathetic,  George  Sparrow  had  a  tale  for  all 
times  and  humors.  Happy  was  the  boy  who  was 
his  bed-fellow,  to  whom  he  would  tell  tales  till  the 
morning  bell  rang ;  and  yet  it  must  be  confessed  to 
his  shame,  that  into  one  little  fellow,  who  had  for 
three  months  this  honor,  he  instilled  so  much  terror 
by  his  tales  of  ghosts,  hobgoblins,  and  bloody  mur- 
ders, that  he  fell  into  what  is  called  a  low  way,  and 
only  recovered  by  the  intervention  of  his  mother, 
who  took  him  home  and  nursed  him  for  a  whole 
winter. 

Other  circumstances  made  the  Triangle  not 
less  remarkable  than  respectable;  they  had  never 
known  the  infliction  of  chastisement  from  either 
cane  or  ferula.  Each  had  been  at  school  three 
years,  and,  though  they  came  from  different  coun- 
ties, had  all  entered  the  same  day.  They  had  all 
gone  honorably  and  speedily  forward  with  their 
school-learning,  each  first  in  some  particular 
branch  of  knowledge,  so  that  with  mathematical^ 
classical y  and  English  tutors,  as  with  the  head- 
master himself,  they  stood  high  in  estimation.  It 
was  a  singular  Triangle,  all  the  three  sides  so 
various,  yet,  as  a  whole,  according  so  perfectly ; 
and  it  may  be  questioned,  whether  ever  a  friend- 
ship was  formed  between  two  persons,  but,  as- 
suredly, seldom  among  three,  in  which  there  was 
a  greater  unity  of  purpose  and  affection.  They 
were  the  David  and  Jonathan  —  the  Orestes  and 
Pylades  of  the  school ;  and  from  the  solemn  Dr. 
Reader  himself,  down  to  -J$&  little  Hans  Fuggen- 


166  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

felt,  the  Dutch  boy,  who  was  the  most  ineffable 
blockhead  in  the  school,  every  body  gave  them 
fair  words  and  favor. 

So  stood  the  Triangle  after  the  midsummer 
holidays,  when  a  great  boy,  half  knave  and  half 
dunce,  one  Nathaniel,  or,  as  he  was  commonly 
called,  Nat  Simpkins,  became  a  scholar,  and,  ac- 
cording to  his  abilities,  which  were  prodigious  in 
this  line,  proceeded  to  set  the  school  by  the  ears. 
The  Triangle,  being  most  conspicuous  for  general 
favor,  was  the  first  object  of  his  jealousy.  He 
drew  a  party  of  weak-minded  boys  to  his  side,  and 
began  by  artfully  insinuating  suspicions  of  under- 
hand proceedings  on  the  part  of  the  Triangle ; 
plainly  expressing  his  belief  that  they  were  only 
spared  punishment,  corporal  punishment  especially, 
from  the  partiality  of  Dr.  Reader ;  while  he,  the 
exemplary  Nathaniel  Simpkins,  who  was,  accord- 
ing to  his  own  showing,  superior  to  them  in  every 
respect,  and  who  had  been  at  the  school  but  two 
months,  had  been  flogged  a  dozen  times,  had 
learned  two  dozen  tasks,  and  had  been  otherwise 
publicly  disgraced  seventeen  times.  The  thing, 
he  said,  was  as  plain  as  daylight ;  and  half  the 
school  began  to  give  him  credit  for  great  sagacity 
in  the  discovery.  The  next  thing  he  did,  was  to 
caricature  the  doctor,  by  painting  him  in  his  bag- 
wig  and  gown,  wearing  triangular  spectacles,  and 
flogging  the  whole  school  with  birch-rod  and  ferula. 
This  took  prodigiously :  any  novelty  soon  wins 
partisans;  and  such  a  thing  as  a  division,  or  two 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  167 

sides,  in  this  little  community,  was  so  new,  that, 
before  many  days  were  over,  half  the  school  joined 
his  party,  and  were  violent  accordingly.  Simpkins 
and  his  party  resolved  never  to  be  reconciled  to 
the  Triangulars,  till  their  leaders  had  undergone 
some  disgraceful  punishment ;  they  therefore  art- 
fully went  to  work,  reproached  them  with  being 
favorites,  and  cast  endless  reflections  on  the 
doctor  for  blind  partiality.  The  Triangle  vio- 
lently resented  these  reflections  on  the  doctor,  vin- 
dicated him  from  the  charge  of  partiality,  and 
maintained  that  if  they,  or  any  of  them,  were 
worthy  of  punishment,  punishment  they  would 
receive. 

"  Prove  it !  prove  it !  —  Show  us  that  the  doctor 
is  impartial,  and  we  will  be  friends ! "  was  the 
reply. 

The  Triangle  were  but  boys ;  they  meant  well, 
but  they  argued  ill. 

"  We  will  prove  it  I  "  cried  the  first. 

"  We  will  be  the  champions  of  Dr.  Reader's  fair 
fame  !  "  responded  the  second. 

"  We  will  make  ourselves  worthy  of  punishment, 
to  show  you  that  the  good  doctor  is  incapable  of 
injustice  !  "  echoed  the  third. 

It  was  at  the  extremity  of  the  play-ground,  under 
the  dim  shade  of  the  old  yew  trees,  that  this 
singular  knight-errantry  was  sworn,  with  twenty 
boys  on  either  side  as  witnesses.  At  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  ceremony,  Arthur  Meynell,  a  firm  ad- 
herent of  the  Triangulars,  so  renowned  for  the 


168  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

general  correctness  of  his  conduct  and  opinions, 
that  he  was  commonly  surnamed  "  The  Con- 
^•cience,"  boldly  stepped  into  the  midst,  warned 
the  Triangle  of  their  folly  and  danger,  and  con- 
cluded by  saying,  that  —  "The  Triangle  ought  to 
have  more  sense  than  to  displease  the  doctor,  and 
disgrace  themselves,  for  a  set  of  idle  fellows  like 
those  !  " 

"  Coward,  fool,  meddler ;  pitiful  and  sneaking !  " 
—  these  were  the  best  words  that  "  The  Con- 
science" got  from  Simpkins  and  his  party;  and 
the  Triangulars  were  all  too  busy  to  listen  to  him. 

The  next  day  the  Triangle  held  a  cabinet  council 
which  lasted  three  hours  and  three  quarters.  The 
result  of  their  deliberations  was  a  plan,  according 
to  the  best  authority,  suggested  by  Sparrow,  some- 
what improved  upon  by  Salmon,  and  finally  put 
into  accomplishable  form  by  Harry  Lion. 

What  that  plan  was,  and  how  it  was  executed, 
we  will  proceed  to  relate. 


PART    II. 
THE    HISTORY    OF    TWO    DAYS. 

IT  was  a  fine  September  morning,  warm  and 
glowing ;  the  harvest  was  mostly  got  in,  the  orchard 
and  gardens  were  full  of  beautiful  fruit,  as  the 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  169 

Triangle,  having  escaped  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  from  an  upper  window,  walked  briskly 
along  a  wooded  lane,  three  miles  from  the  school 
village. 

They  had  undertaken  a  three  days'  ramble  round 
the  country,  intending  no  where  to  exceed  nine 
miles  distance  from  their  centre,  the  school ;  being 
whimsically  determined  to  direct  all  their  move- 
ments, in  these  three  days,  by  their  own  number. 
Each  boy  had  three  shillings  in  his  pocket ;  they 
were  to  live  as  merrily  as  might  be,  to  turn  to 
account  each  his  own  peculiar  gift  in  gaining  their 
daily  bread  and  their  night's  lodging,  and  what 
they  could  not  obtain  for  love  they  were  to  buy 
with  money.  At  all  events,  they  determined,  as 
far  as  in  them  lay,  that  these  three  days  should  be 
merry  ones,  come  what  would  afterwards ;  and  all 
along  they  made  their  minds  easy  by  persuading 
themselves  that  they  were  champions  in  the  best 
cause  in  the  world. 

At  six  o'clock,  they  came  to  a  milkmaid  who 
was  singing ;  from  her  they  obtained  a  draught  of 
milk,  and  then  proceeded  onward,  passing  through 
a  little  town,  where  they  bought  bread  and  cheese, 
upon  which  they  dined.  Leaving  the  town  then, 
they  saw,  to  the  right  of  the  road,  a  pleasant  hollow 
overshadowed  by  trees  ;  they  entered  it,  and,  ther<? 
lying  down,  Charles  sang  "  Barbara  Allen's  Cruel- 
ty," after  which  they  all  three  went  very  comfort- 
ably to  sleep.  When  they  awoke,  they  found  tne 
sun  beginning  to  sink,  and,  looking  round,  they 
15 


170  THE    TALE    OF    A   TRIANGLE. 

saw  a  farm-house  below  them,  half  buried  in  rich 
orchard  trees,  loaded  with  bright,  golden  apples. 
No  schoolboy  can  resist  an  apple,  and  therefore, 
if  they  had  not  wanted  something  more  substantial, 
as  they  did,  they  would  instinctively  have  gone 
down. 

At  the  door  they  met  a  stout,  rosy-faced,  loud- 
spoken  dame,  stripped  to  her  stays  and  green- 
quilted  petticoat,  who  accosted  them  cheerfully. 
They  told  her  they  wanted  their  supper,  and  a 
night's  lodging ;  she  laughed  merrily,  and  called 
them  "  impudent  beggars,"  and  "  lazy  varlets," 
and  yet  said  they  were  welcome  to  all  her  house 
contained.  She  then  brought  them  into  the  large 
kitchen,  set  them  down  to  a  black  oak  table,  and 
gave  them  whey  and  new  bread,  fresh  laid  eggs, 
and  broiled  bacon.  It  was  an  excellent  feast ;  they 
never  had  been  so  hungry  in  all  their  lives  before, 
and  never  had  enjoyed  any  thing  half  as  much. 
When  they  had  finished  this  luxurious  meal,  as  the 
good  dame  had  said  nothing  about  the  night's 
lodging,  they  rose  up  to  depart ;  but  she  stopped 
them,  saying,  "  O  no  !  after  such  a  meal's  meat  as 
that,  she  must  have  some  work  out  of  them,  and 
therefore  they  must  stop  and  help  her  son  in  apple- 
gathering  ; "  adding,  that  "  it  was  lucky  they  had 
come,  for  if  they  were  only  half  as  ready  with 
their  hands  as  they  had  been  with  their  mouths, 
they  would  be  a  famous  help  for  poor  Ned ! " 

The  Triangle  was  very  well  pleased,  and  before 
long  poor  Ned  made  his  appearance ;  a  great 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  171 

gawky  lad  of  seventeen,  walking  like  a  cart-horse, 
and  looking  as  shamefaced  as  an  owl  in  the  sun- 
shine, when  he  saw  the  three  "  young  gentlemen  " 
whom  his  mother  proposed  to  him  as  his  asso- 
ciates in  the  apple-gathering.  The  apple-gathering, 
however,  soon  made  them  very  good  friends,  and 
then  they  were  merry  altogether.  Merry  in  the 
orchard ;  merry  too  in  the  house  into  which  they 
carried  baskets  full  and  bags  full,  bags  full  and 
baskets  full,  of  the  most  delicious  apples,  until  the 
good  dame  herself  was  tired  of  reckoning  them  ; 
she  all  the  while  laughing  and  talking,  praising 
the  Triangle,  praising  the  apples,  and  praising  her 
Ned. 

After  this  labor,  or  rather  pastime,  and  a  second 
hearty  supper  of  roasted  apples  and  new  milk,  they 
all  sate  down  by  the  great  kitchen  fire,  which  was 
made  of  logs  laid  on  the  hearth.  And  a  jovial 
party  they  were !  There  was  the  dame ;  poor 
Ned ;  his  father,  a  quiet  old  man,  who  said  nothing 
at  all,  and  yet  seemed  to  enjoy  every  thing ;  two 
round-faced,  laughing  country  girls,  and  two  sleepy, 
slow-footed  lads,  ten  times  duller  and  heavier  th-ni 
poor  Ned  himself,  and  the  merry  Triangle  in  the 
midst,  singing  songs,  telling  tales,  and  acting  all 
humorous  and  whimsical  characters  whatever. 
There  they  sate  at  nine  o'clock  at  night;  and 
there  they  sate  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning , 
and  then  the  good  woman,  who  had  laughed  and 
cried  alternately  for  so  many  hours,  hurried  her 
three  strange  guests  up  stairs  into  her  best  chamber, 


172  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

in  which  were  also  deposited  cheese,  spun  flax, 
fleeces,  and  woollen  Wares ;  and  wishing  them  a 
good  night's  rest,  left  them  to  sleep  between  the 
blankets,  three  in  a  bed. 

The  Triangle  slept  as  sound  as  a  top.  The 
cock  had  long  done  crowing;  poor  Ned  and  his 
father  were  out  in  the  fields,  and  the  dame  and  her 
maids  busy  at  their  household  work,  when  the 
Triangle  made  its  way  once  more  into  the  spacious 
kitchen.  And  then  what  a  breakfast  they  had  ! 
The  supper  over  night  was  nothing  to  it  i  There 
was  milk  and  coffee,  and  oat-cakes  and  barley- 
cakes,  eggs  and  honey,  wheaten  bread  and  spice 
bread,  and  various  sorts  of  country  dainties,  with 
and  without  names.  Thus  having  banqueted,  they 
again  set  forth ;  their  merry  and  kind-hearted 
hostess  leaving  her  cheese-pans  to  see  them  across 
farm-yard  and  orchard,  and  over  two  fields,  a 
croft  and  meadow,  before  she  could  make  up  her 
mind  to  part  with  them. 

"  Fortune  has  hitherto  favored  us!"  said  the 
Triangle  ;  "  what  will  be  our  fate  to-day  ?  " 

But  that  day  brought  a  thunder-storm  which 
lasted,  from  the  first  heavy  drops  that  came  before, 
to  the  skirts  of  the  storm  that  came  after,  from 
eleven  o'clock  till  three  ;  and  the  poor  Triangle, 
sadly  against  its  will,  took  shelter  under  an  oak- 
treo.  Do  what  he  would  to  prevent  it,  all  sort 
of  dismal  tales  of  men  struck  blind  by  lightning, 
and  women  and  children  struck  dead  with  thunder- 
bolts, came  into  the  head  of  George,  and  for  his 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  173 

life  he  could  not  help  telling  them ;  so  there  they 
stood,  expecting  every  flash  of  lightning  to  leave 
them  blind  or  dead!  But  the  storm  passed  over 
without  injuring  them;  and,  excepting  being  wet 
to  the  skin,  they  were  no  worse  for  it. 

On,  therefore,  they  proceeded,  out  of  the  old 
pasture  fields  where  they  had  sheltered,  into  a  long, 
wooded,  and  pleasant  lane ;  and  here  they  had  not 
gone  far  before  they  were  overtaken  by  their  quon- 
dam schoolfellow,  Dick  Deriton,  now  called  Mr. 
Richard  Deriton,  or  the  young  'Squire.  He  was 
mounted  on  a  fine  racer,  and  was  riding  gayly 
along,  giving  the  reins  to  his  horse,  and  letting  it 
go  at  its  own  pace ;  he  checked  it,  however,  when, 
to  his  astonishment,  he  saw  his  old  companions. 

"  Heyday,  Triangle  !"  cried  he;  "what  brings 
you  here?  " 

It  was  soon  told.  Deriton  enjoyed  the  joke 
amazingly,  leaped  from  his  horse,  and  throwing  the 
reins  on  its  neck,  joined  them,  and  the  sagacious 
animal  walked  leisurely  after  its  master. 

"  You  shall  sleep  at  our  house  to-night,"  said 
Deriton ;  "  my  father  is  gone  to  the  races,  and 
doesn't  return  till  to-morrow;  so  I'll  invite  my 
friends,  the  Wigtons,  and  we'll  have  for  once  a 
merry  night  of  it ! " 

"  Excellent !  "  said  the  Triangle. 

"  You  shall  sing  songs,  and  tell  tales,  and  per- 
form comedy,"  continued  Deriton,  "  and  you  shall 
be  encored  till  the  house  rings  !  " 

And  they  were  encored  till  the  house  rang ! 
15* 


174  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

There  they  were,  in  the  great  dining-room,  where 
they  had  had  an  excellent  dinner,  the  chandeliers 
lighted,  the  large  table  drawn  to  one  end  for  a  stage, 
and  steward,  butler,  groom,  stable-boy,  gardener, 
house-keeper,  and  half-a-dozen  women  servants,  all 
for  audience ;  and  poor  little  Harry  swelled  out 
for  Sir  John  Falstaff,  hectoring  and  killing  a  hun- 
dred men  at  a  blow,  when  —  O  unlucky  mis- 
chance !  —  in  came  no  other  than  the  old  'Squire 
himself,  all  fire  and  fury,  swearing  and  blustering 
like  ten  troopers !  Here  began  a  second  act  in 
the  comedy;  out  hurried  one  at  one  door,  and 
another  at  another ;  one  got  behind  a  screen,  and 
another  under  a  table ;  and  the  old  asthmatical 
butler,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  behind  the  chim- 
ney-board, where,  on  account  of  his  terrible  cough, 
which  the  dust  he  disturbed  set  a-going,  it  was  vain 
to  think  of  concealment. 

The  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  was  nothing 
to  the  'Squire's  storm  of  passion  ;  the  Wigtons 
were  sent  home  instanter,  with  orders  to  wait  for 
his  invitation  before  they  came  again  :  every  ser- 
vant had  orders  to  leave,  from  the  old  steward 
who  had  served  the  family  for  fifty  years,  to  the 
kitchen  girl  who  came  but  the  day  before.  Young 
'Deriton  was  threatened  with  being  disinherited,  (a 
threat  which  had  been  too  often  repeated  to  be 
much  dreaded,)  and  the  Triangle  locked  up  in  a 
chamber,  with  a  promise  of  being  sent  back  in  the 
morning  to  Doctor  Reader,  with  such  a  character 
as  the  'Squire  thought  they  deserved.  All  this 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  175 

being  done,  he  sate  himself  down  to  his  bottle,  which 
he  did  not  leave  till  twelve  o'clock. 

The  Triangle  deliberately  consulted  on  the  state 
of  affairs,  and  thought  it  best  to  be  stirring  early, 
at  least  if  they  could  but  get  their  chamber-door 
unlocked,  for  the  key  was  at  the  other  side.  But 
they  were  helped  out  of  this  dilemma  by  young 
Deriton,  who  made  his  appearance  in  their  cham- 
ber by  daybreak,  and  bade  them  begone,  giving 
each  of  them  a  small  loaf,  and  praying  them  to 
walk  softly.  The  Triangle  thought  itself  very 
happy  when  it  was  safely  out  at  the  back  door,  and 
walked  hastily  forth  through  the  dewy  shrubbery, 
and  among  the  sweet-smelling  and  aromatic  trees 
and  flowers  of  the  garden,  and  then  took  leave  of 
the  young  'Squire  at  the  park  gate,  who,  in  spite 
of  his  assumed  carelessness,  they  could  not  help 
suspecting,  wished  that  his  father  had  found  them 
less  jocose  than  they  were  at  his  entrance. 


PART   III. 

OP  THE  THIRD  DAY,  AND  THE  END  OF  THE 
ADVENTURE. 

A  LITTLE  sobered  perhaps  with  the  catastrophe 
of  the  last  evening,  the  Triangle  walked  on  over 
hills  and  by  wood  sides,  and  across  a  wide,  open 


176  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

common,  crimsoned  with  the  beautiful  heath- 
flowers,  and  along  the  hollows  of  which  ran  a 
bright,  living  rivulet,  murmuring  like  a  sweet  voice, 
and  glittering  in  the  sunshine.  The  Triangle  went 
across  the  heath  and  by  the  water-side  before 
meeting  with  any  adventure,  or  seeing  any  thing 
more  extraordinary  than  the  brisk  little  furze 
wren,  and  the  green  and  golden  beetles  of  the  com- 
mon, and  the  quick-darting  trouts  that  were  seen 
for  a  moment  and  then  gone,  in  the  clear  water  of 
the  beautiful  little  brook.  At  the  other  end  of  the 
common  stood  a  small  hamlet,  which  they  entered, 
and  where  they  purchased  a  good  supply  of  pro- 
vision ;  for,  after  all  this  rambling  in  the  fresh  morn- 
ing air,  they  were  hungry  enough.  Leaving  the 
village,  they  struck  into  some  quiet,  retired  fields, 
in  every  one  of  which  stood  a  new  haystack,  and, 
seating  themselves  under  one  of  them  which  stood 
in  the  prettiest  sylvan  nook  imaginable,  they  began 
eagerly  to  discuss  the  contents  of  their  wallet. 

Now  it  happened  that  about  two  fields'  distance 
from  the  place  where  they  sate,  and  directly  op- 
posite to  it,  were  three  little  hills,  and,  as  their 
eyes  were  ever  on  the  watch  for  occasion  of  merri- 
ment, or  for  subjects  of  curious  speculation,  they 
beheld  three  men  standing,  one  upon  each  of  these 
eminences,  evidently  looking  around  them  in  quest 
of  something.  North,  south,  east,  and  west,  they 
turned,  with  spyglasses  in  their  hands,  to  enable 
them  to  perceive  any  small  or  distant  objects,  which 
they  ever  and  anon  applied  to  their  eyes,  looking 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  177 

round  them  with  great  assiduity.  They  stood  up, 
clear  and  distinct  in  the  bright  light,  the  morning 
sun  behind  them,  and  were  not  for  a  moment  to 
be  mistaken ;  —  Mathematical,  Classical,  and  Eng- 
lish teachers  in  the  renowned  school  of  Dr.  Reader. 
Away  went  the  Triangle  behind  the  rick,  intending 
from  this  post  narrowly  to  watch,  and  for  the 
present  to  elude  their  pursuers. 

In  a  short  time  the  three  men  of  learning,  having 
satisfied  themselves,  came  down  from  their  eleva- 
tion, and  before  long  entered  the  very  meadow  in 
which  the  Triangle  lay  concealed ;  and  presently 
afterwards,  thus  came  the  words  of  Rhomboid,  the 
mathematician,  as  they  passed  by :  — 

"  Twenty-seven  miles  have  I  walked ;  forty-five 
miles  and  a  half  have  I  ridden ;  at  eleven  houses, 
and  from  a  hundred  and  three  persons,  have  I  made 
inquiries ;  and  yet  all  my  labor  has  been  in  vain." 

"  So  it  is,"  replied  Remus,  the  master  of  the 
classics ;  "  fag  in  doors,  fag  out  of  doors ;  a  school- 
master's life  is  like  a  dog's !  " 

"  Grumble  as  you  will,"  rejoined  Lemuel  Pros- 
ody, "  I  hope  they've  enjoyed  their  ramble  as  much 
as  I've  enjoyed  mine.  Sparrow  is  a  prodigy  of 
learning,  and  if  my  good  word  will  save  them  from 
a  flogging,  they  shall  have  it  for  his  sake." 

"  Now,  Heaven  bless  you  !  "  whispered  Sparrow, 
when  the  three  wise  men  had  passed  by,  unwitting 
of  their  auditors. 

"  They  may  fag  on,  poor  dogs,"  said  Salmon ; 
"  but  they'll  not  hunt  us  out  for  all  that !  " 


178  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

"  There  they  go,"  said  Lion,  "  due  north,  and 
we'll  go  south,  and  meet  to-morrow  morning  at 
breakfast." 

It  was  now  past  noon  ;  and  the  Triangle  had 
entered  within  the  bounds  of  their  occasional 
rambles ;  and  being  three  miles  from  the  school, 
were  as  near  as  they  deemed  it  safe  to  venture. 
They,  therefore,  turned  on  to  a  wild  extent  of  hilly 
and  open  land,  the  remains  of  an  ancient  chase. 
It  was  full  of  deep,  quiet  hollows,  the  steep  banks 
of  which  were  covered  with  tall,  green  bracken 
and  crimson  betony.  No  pleasanter  place  could 
be  imagined  for  a  summer-day  stroll  than  this,  and 
to  this  they  came ;  and  lay  down  all  their  lengths, 
in  one  of  its  most  secluded  hollows.  After  they 
had  lain  here  for  about  half  an  hour,  and  when 
Sparrow  was  in  the  middle  of  one  of  his  most  di- 
verting stories,  they  beheld  what,  to  their  startled 
imaginations,  appeared  no  other  than  the  veritable 
Doctor  Reader  himself,  mounted  on  a  strong  gray 
horse,  riding  up  the  hollow  directly  opposite  to 
them. 

It  perhaps  was  cowardly  to  fly,  and  yet  fly  they 
did,  up  one  hollow,  and  down  another,  winding 
about,  so  as,  if  possible,  to  escape  pursuit.  The 
horseman  spoke  not  a  word,  for,  trusting  to  his 
strong,  well-trained  horse,  he  was  sure  of  the 
chase.  Salmon  and  Lion  cleared  the  ground  like 
greyhounds  ;  the  one  helped  by  length  of  limb,  the 
other  by  lightness  of  body,  soon  distancing  poor 
Sparrow,  who  was  memorably  deficient  in  these 


Tin:    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  179 

two  particulars,  and  who  felt  himself  already  in  the 
clutches  of  the  angry  doctor. 

"  Stop,  you  terrified  fool !  "  cried  the  horseman, 
suddenly  wheeling  his  horse  round  so  as  to  inter- 
cept Sparrow ;  "  stop,  in  the  name  of  common 
sense,  and  direct  me  the  way  to  Wimbleton  !  " 

These  words  restored  Sparrow  at  once  to  his 
senses,  and,  out  of  breath  as  he  was,  he  gave  the 
required  information,  Wimbleton  being  the  village 
where  they  had  last  stopped.  The  stranger  laughed 
till  he  almost  bent  to  his  saddle-bow,  called  him 
"a  cowardly  blockhead"  for  his  pains,  and  rode 
briskly  back  again. 

By  this  time  Salmon  and  Lion  had  returned  to 
their  companion,  intending  to  give  themselves  up 
also  to  justice,  expecting  to  find  him  with  his  hands 
tied  behind  his  back,  laid  across  the  horse  like  a 
sheep  taken  for  slaughter. 

Despite  now  all  their  endeavors  to  resist  the 
enemy,  a  feeling  of  despondency  crept  over  their 
spirits.  They  sat  down  again,  intending  to  wait 
till  the  moon  rose  before  they  proceeded  home ; 
but  no  song  was  sung,  no  tale  told,  and,  which  was 
strange  even  to  themselves,  they  sat  in  silence  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night,  either  by  popping 
in  at  the  keyhole,  or  scaling  the  walls,  or  walking 
in  at  the  hall-door  in  invisible  jackets,  the  Triangle, 
unknown  to  the  whole  household,  (at  least  so  it 
seemed,)  entered  their  chamber,  and  lay  down  in 


180  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

their  respective  beds,  in  which  they  soundly  slept 
till  the  morning-bell  rang. 

"  Now,  Simpkins,"  said  they,  as  they  entered  the 
room,  where  the  boys  were  drawn  up  rank  and  file 
for  prayers,  waiting  the  entrance  of  the  masters^ 
"  now,  Simpkins,  for  a  proof  of  the  doctor's  im- 
partiality !  " 

In  came  the  solemn  doctor;  in  came  every 
tutor  and  usher.  Not  a  word  was  said;  pray- 
ers were  regularly  gone  through,  and  a  silence 
like  death  followed. 

Presently  an  under-master  went  out,  and  re- 
turned with  three  chains,  each  having,  at  its  ex- 
tremities, manacles,  as  if  to  enclose  the  wrist  and 
ankle.  Some  of  the  little  boys  shuddered  ;  some 
turned  pale;  but  the  Triangle  stood  firm,  and 
looked  neither  ashamed  nor  terrified. 

"  Young  gentlemen,"  said  the  doctor,  ad- 
dressing the  three  offenders  in  a  deep,  stern  voice ; 
"young  gentlemen,  you  have  been  three  years 
under  my  care,  during  which  time  you  have  not 
needed  punishment,  hardly  reproof;  the  conse- 
quence of  this  has  been,  that  I  have  boasted  of 
you  publicly  and  privately ;  I  have  honored  your 
industry  and  sobriety  ;  I  have  held  you  up  as  ex- 
amples to  your  companions  ;  I  have  confided  in 
you;  —  but  I  have  been  deceived!  —  Gentlemen, 
I  say  it  with  pain  —  I  have  been  deceived !  —  I  can 
boast  of  you,  I  can  honor  you,  I  can  confide  in 
you  no  longer !  Is  it  possible  that,  from  the  favor 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE.  181 

you  have  received  from  me,  —  and  which  you  only 
received  because  you  appeared  to  deserve  it,  — 
you  supposed  I  should  pass  over  your  delinquen- 
cies, or  permit  you  to  infringe  the  laws  of  order 
without  punishment?  Corporal  punishment  by 
stripes,  however,  you  shall  not  receive  at  my  hands  ; 
so  far  I  will  still  respect  your  former  unblamable 
conduct ;  but  since  you  have  forfeited  my  confi- 
dence, I  must  secure  your  persons,  and  also  make 
you  a  public  example  to  the  school. 

"  You,  perhaps,  imagine  me  ignorant  of  your 
idle  wanderings,  for  these  three  days :  you  are 
mistaken.  I  know  where  you  have  been ;  what 
company  you  have  kept ;  and  how  you  have  de- 
meaned yourselves. 

"  Again  I  repeat  it,  my  confidence  has  been 
abused,  and  with  deep  sorrow  I  leave  you  for  the 
present  to  your  own  reflections  !  —  Mr.  Beetham, 
do  your  duty." 

The  fetters  were  put  on,  and  the  Triangle, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  went  out,  somewhat  grave, 
yet,  nevertheless,  unsubdued  in  aspect.  As  soon 
as  they  entered  the  play-ground,  a  stunning  shout 
greeted  them  from  their  own  party.  Doctor  Read- 
er was  sitting  in  his  little  back-parlor,  when  these 
sounds  of  triumph  reached  him,  and  very  much 
disconcerted  was  he  to  hear  them.  There  was 
something  very  unaccountable  to  him  in  the  whole 
proceeding.  He  was  mortified  and  amazed  at 
what  seemed  to  him  the  obstinate  temper  of  the 
three  offenders,  who,  to  say  the  truth,  he  loved  as 
16 


182  THE    TALE    OF    A    TRIANGLE. 

well  perhaps  as  he  would  have  loved  children  of 
his  own,  had  he  possessed  any;  and  more  than 
this,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  began  to  ques- 
tion the  power  of  his  own  eloquence,  or  to  suspect 
that  his  mode  of  punishment  was  injudicious, 
since  it  produced  so  strange  a  result.  Grieved, 
therefore,  and  a  little  out  of  humor,  he  walked 
into  his  study,  intending  to  make  silent  but  exact 
observation  on  all  that  went  forward  in  the  play- 
ground. Great,  therefore,  was  his  amazement, 
when  he  beheld  the  three  culprits  seated  on  a 
platform,  and  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  many 
boys,  while  others  ran  before,  waving  caps  and 
handkerchiefs,  and  shouting  — "  Victory  !  victory  ! 
Justice,  the  good  Doctor  Reader,  and  the  Trian- 
gle forever  ! " 

o 

The  doctor  was  more  amazed  and  bewildered 
than  before.  He  hastened,  therefore,  to  the  scene 
of  action,  determining  to  have  it  explained,  and 
followed  the  triumphal  procession  to  the  yew-tree 
walk,  and  there  found  the  victors  seated  upon  a 
rude  sort  of  throne,  under  the  trees. 

The  unexpected  appearance  of  the  doctor 
rather  disconcerted  the  Triangle,  who,  feeling  that 
this  defiance,  as  it  were,  of  punishment,  might 
very  justly  still  further  displease  him,  wished  in- 
ternally that  the  whole  affair  were  explained;  but 
as  no  one  of  the  three  did  explain  it,  Arthur 
Meynell,  otherwise  called  "The  Conscience," 
who  saw  it  in  the  same  light  as  themselves,  stepped 
forward,  and  in  an  astonishingly  short  time  laid: 


THE    TALE    OF   A    TRIANGLE.  183 

open  the  whole  plot ;  declaring  that  the  triumph 
he  now  witnessed  was  only  the  Triangulars  -re- 
joicing that  the  justice  and  the  impartiality  of 
the  good  doctor  was  unquestionably  established. 
This  being  said,  he  was  so  led  away  by  his  en- 
thusiasm, that,  even  in  presence  of  that  grave  per- 
sonage himself,  he  shouted,  — te  Justice !  the  good 
Doctor  Reader,  and  the  Triangle  forever ! "  in 
which  shout  every  boy  joined,  till  the  poor  doctor 
was  half  deafened  by  the  uproar. 

At  length,  when  silence  was  obtained,  with 
some  severity  of  countenance,  which  amazed  his 
vehement  young  partisans,  he  ordered  them  quiet- 
ly to  assemble  in  the  school-room.  They  did  so ; 
and  then  he  again  harangued  them;  and  not 
only  the  Triangle  and  its  party,  but  Nat  Simpkins 
and  his.  It  was  a  long  and  a  grave  harangue; 
and,  to  the  doctor's  satisfaction,  all  the  school 
looked  serious ;  half  were  in  tears ;  and  the  Tri- 
angle felt,  for  the  first  time,  and  was  not  slow  to 
acknowledge  it,  how  improperly  and  unwisely  they 
had  acted;  and  never,  while  they  remained  at 
school,  nay,  nor  afterwards  through  the  whole 
course  of  their  lives,  did  they  again  "  do  evil  that 
good  might  come  of  it." 


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